Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days
by Romanoma
Summary: 365 days of Romano L. Vargas; first dates, first kisses, first times, first fights, first make-ups and onwards. AU.  Spamano Fruk GerIta, using nation names.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: I took inspiration for this from the film 500 Days of Summer - if you haven't seen it, please go and watch it! I don't normally do chick flicks, but it was very good. Ahh, I don't use human names in fanfiction really, so...suspension of disbelief, please :)

Unedited version can be found upon my livejournal. Username: Romanoma

**Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days****  
><strong>**Part 1**

_Thirty-Eight: 00:10_

"Oh...oh _fuck_...fuck-"

Spain had no idea Lady Fortune was smiling so graciously upon him that morning, perhaps as broadly as Spain was trying not to smile as he watched the way Romano's hips moved, practised and fluid and fast, faster, faster, faster, every moment rolling closer to orgasm. A little bead of sweat cautiously wound down his neck, pooling in his collar, overflowing, continuing down his muscular torso and disappearing into the delicious little dip of his belly button where Spain's eyes were now fixed, wishing he could lap it all up like a thirsty dog.

He was leaving purple pawprints on his hips, but he couldn't bring himself to let go in case it broke the spell, spoilt the passion like an eighties power ballad paused. Heart thud-thudding in his ears the way it always did when he'd had too much San Miguel, he bent his knees, just for more contact, pressing the top of his thighs flat to Romano's fleshy arse, feeling it spreading obscenely around them. Not thrown even for a second, Romano leaned forward, pressing palms flat to Spain's chest, colour moist olive with exertion. His nails dug into the muscular bridge of his shoulders to ground himself and Spain gripped his hips tighter, dragged him down, forward, up, down, forward, up, down.

"J-Jesus, coming...coming!" Spain cried, a swift buck of his hips sending Romano off balance, arms winding around him, squeezing him close to his chest. He could feel Romano's frantic, fluttering pulse against the cool tip of his nose and smiled, mouth swift to his neck to kiss and taste and nip as he exploded, heat trickling down his spine like a fuel injection to his hips. Romano could only hold on and moan, teeth sinking into Spain's neck as he tumbled over with him.

Minutes later - Spain memorising everything he could, the sound of their breathing slowing, the way Romano's nose wrinkled against his chest, the tickling sensation of sweat cooling on his upper lip, the weight of Romano on his chest, the satisfying stickiness fastening them by their bellies, on and on and on - Romano lifted his head, rearranged his legs and lifted off, flopping alongside in the cooler bit of the sheets. Spain cooed in disappointment. Nonetheless, he didn't complain, smiling sleepily, satiated.

"You were amazing," he said softly, hand lifting to brush damp hair from his new lover's eyes. He winced when he was slapped aside, wondering what he'd done, but then Romano was smirking, head propped on his elbow, looking coy and sultry and sexy and cute all at once. Spain couldn't help being charmed all over again.

"You weren't bad yourself, bastard. Why didn't you tell me you're a fucking stud?" Romano said, fingers tracing the angle of his collarbone, dipping into the triangular hollow. "Fuck, if I wasn't exhausted, I'd want another round."

Spain flushed. "Do you really think I'm a stud? That's a good thing, isn't it? Being a stud?"

Romano laughed. Spain felt it vibrate in his chest, in his heart, warm and lucid, but instead of simply answering, Romano flicked his forehead. Spain massaged the spot with the heel of his hand, still smiling. A flick was nicer than a pinch and was definitely nicer than a punch to his forearm. "So um...do you want to go to sleep now or talk or...do you want a drink? Or a shower! Or a nice bath~"

Drifting off into the fantasy of bathing with the man he had been obsessing over for thirty-eight days since he caught sight of him drinking a caramel ice latte outside Carluccio's, Spain failed to notice that Romano was already drifting off to sleep. But when he did notice, he could only smile, shimmying under the sheets and curling a protective arm around his middle, quick to follow him into dreams.

Romano was gone the following morning, but a bright pink post-it note was stuck to Spain's forehead. In lazy Italian scrawl, it read:

___Meet me for lunch. I'll text the address - don't be fucking late.__  
><em>_I made breakfast - leftovers in the fridge. Ciao, bastard_

_Thirty: 13:46_

Prussia couldn't stand sitting still, even if it provided him the opportunity to watch scantily dressed young things strolling by with their bosoms high and their t-shirts low. He didn't know how Spain had talked him into this, something to do with a promise to buy all of his drinks for a month, the words swallowed by Spain's excited, undecipherable babbling. Spain hadn't even bought the coffee he was currently stirring and somehow had ended up paying for the iced Madeira cake his companion was in the midst of scoffing while he eyed passersby.

Huffing, Prussia waved a hand in front of Spain's face. "Oi, how much longer do I have to wait here while you act like a total creeper. This is my third coffee. All the caffeine in my body is gonna' explode out of the top of my head if I don't put it to good use," he said, dropping his hand when Spain waved dismissively.

"He'll be here. Any minute now and I'll see him, I swear. I can feel it," Spain explained, cake crumbs forming miniature mountains on his lap.

"Just wait with me a little longer. My plan won't work without you, so just a little longer, okay?"

Prussia rolled his eyes, cursing France's unavailability to take part in one of Spain's many escapades, plus his ability to convince him of his stupidity, like talking someone suicidal down off a bridge.

They were awaiting a man Prussia wasn't one hundred percent convinced even existed, a man Spain had talked about none-stop since the moment he clapped eyes on him, a man Spain knew nothing about beyond his flawless taste in clothes and leg-melting smile. Nearly three weeks ago, Spain was sitting in the exact spot he was sitting in now, leafing through an abandoned free newspaper. He was only looking at the pictures, drawing moustaches and bunny rabbits wherever he deemed appropriate and giggling to himself.

He saw his shoes first, toes tip-tapping the curved and curling leg of the iron table he had just sat himself at, jet black shoes, stylish shoes, the kind of shoes you can see your reflection in, not dirty lace sneakers like Spain's were, threads coming loose and soles bit-by-bit giving way to large feet. Pristine black leather - Spain assumed they were leather - not too big, not too small, black socks peeking from beneath pressed and hiked black trousers, a lazy hand in his pocket, ice-white shirt not nearly tight enough for Spain's liking, Oakley sunglasses (Spain knew they were Oakley because France bought him a pair once, but he stepped on them a week later when he was drunk) and a smile that could charm the bloomers off Queen Victoria.

And then he spoke, voice like syrup in hot coffee as he slid he sunglasses into his hair. "Hey pretty girl, could I possibly have a caramel latte and a cannoli, please? Only if those beautiful hands of yours are making it though."

The waitress devoured the compliments, flushing. When the man smiled, Spain's heart hit the roof of his mouth.

Prussia checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. "Spain, I've got shit to do. West wanted me to feed the dogs 'cause he's on the late shift tonight, ain't he? He goes batshit if I forget. I ain't got time for you and your imaginary crush."

Spain was nonplussed. "Just tell him it's my fault, I don't mind. Don't be a meanie, Po, I'd do all this for you."

Prussia snorted. Like hell he would. The last time Spain had done him any favours he had ended up locked in a police cell all night missing all of his clothes except for a single shoe. To this day no one could explain how his wrist had become handcuffed to his ankle.

"Oh...oh! There he is! Theretherethere- don't look!" Spain yanked Prussia's arm as his head turned to look, not entirely conspicuously cupping the side of his own head to watch the man approaching out of the corner of his eyes. He was carrying a large black folder under one arm and had a satchel swung across his shoulders, promptly dumping it by a table and tiredly flopping into a seat. A moment later he produced his phone, one of those fancy types Spain could never quite get the hang of using, pressed a few buttons and lifted it to his ear.

"So he does exist at least," Prussia said, interest perked. Spain wasn't listening anyway, eyes absorbing every visible inch of him from the unusual curl of hair bobbing lazily atop his head to the slither of ankle revealed beneath the hem of his trousers, tan this time, straight creases following the length of each shin. On his feet were red espadrilles to match his red shirt, no tie, but a silver cross nestled in his collar.

Taking a few moments longer to admire him, he turned to Prussia, expression serious. "Okay, remember the plan?"

"Yes, I remember the stupid bloody plan. This isn't going to work and I'm going to end up looking like a total dickhead," Prussia complained, grumpily propping his head on his hand. "France is better at this poncy theatrical crap. Why can't you just go over there like a normal human being and ask the guy out. It's the perfect time and place for-ah. Oh. Hm."

Spain's heart sank through the floor. A stunning creature in red had just arrived, bending to kiss the man's cheek before taking the seat beside him, entwining their fingers. Her free hand swept dark curls off her shoulder. Prussia reached over to pat Spain's arm. "Sorry man, guess this one's straight as a poker. Better luck next time. Can we go now?"

Prussia's lack of sensitivity wasn't unusual. The guilt he always felt when Spain gave him that look wasn't either. "Christ Spain, don't start that. He's on a date for God's sake. They're holding hands. What are you expecting to do?"

It took a lot to defeat Spain, especially when his mind was set on something he wanted. And he had never wanted anything more in his life than to take this beautiful Italian stranger on a date, just one date, that was all he was asking for, hands inwardly clasped and signalling to the heavens.

"How do I look?"

Prussia sighed irritably. "Desperate."

"Prussia!" Spain whined, kicking him under the table. "This is a matter of life and death! This could be my one true love here!"

"Not unless that broad is hiding a dick under her dress," Prussia laughed, awkwardly rubbing his shin.

Spain huffed. "Just because he's having lunch with a lady, that doesn't mean he's courting her."

Prussia's nose wrinkled with comical intensity. "'Courting'? What the fuck century are you living in?" He got to his feet a moment later, taking a final swift slurp of his coffee. "Look, I've gotta go, man. Good luck and all, but I don't think you're gonna be banging the beauty this time. Catchya at France's tomorrow, yeah? Don't do anything fucking moronic."

Spain waved him off, head propped on his hand, ducking around Prussia when he briefly blocked the view of his object of affection. Eyes fixed on Him now; tracing circles on her palm, up to her wrist, twisting a stylish Rolex around her wrist; reaching up to brush a delicate curl behind her ear; over her cheek and down her other arm. Spain imagined himself in her position best he could, glaring when He leaned in to whisper in her ear, straining to listen as if he could possibly hear.

She stood a moment later, bending to press a kiss to His cheek. Only seconds after, she was gone, and Spain breathed a sigh of relief, smiling softly, imagining himself alone with Him now, all sweet, fleeting touches and silly endearments and eyes meeting and long, adoring looks filled with heat and passion and intensity and-

"Oi! What the fuck are you staring at?"

Spain jumped, torn from his daydream by the man two tables across, his glare fierce. He'd pulled his sunglasses from his hair, folding them between the buttons of his shirt. Faced with such ferocity, Spain did what he did best. He smiled, broadly, charmingly, and waved; carried on waving when the man rose from his seat and strode over, slamming his portfolio down on the table, waves of coffee crashing over the side of Spain's mug.

"What. The fuck. Are you staring at?"

Spain's smile remained. "Well...you, actually." His flush was so sudden that Spain thought for a moment he was ill. Then he was stammering and spluttering, words stuck in the traffic jam of brain, voicebox, tongue. "You're really cute. Sorry, I couldn't help staring."

"W-what the-" He began, looking around as if the whole world was watching. "W-who the- F-fuck...you...it...w-what..."

"Ha, you look like a cute tomato. Hey, can I take you out for a drink?"

_Sixty-Eight: 11: 33_

"Much as I consider myself a connoisseur of all things romantic, don't you think you are going a little bit overboard here, my sweet little cherry?" France was saying, following Spain from shop to shop, offering his insight every time Spain pointed at an item and cried 'what about that?' The list started with a tomato-shaped charm (dismissed as 'tacky') and so far ended with a pink and red tie (dismissed as 'garish'). "Are the two of you even what they call 'official'?"

Spain was busy nosing through a rack of shirts, pulling one out, shaking his head and putting it back. "Of course we're official," he answered as if France had just asked him if the sky is blue.

"So you've asked him if he wants to be your boyfriend, then?" France said, wrinkling his nose in what could only be described as disgust at the next shirt Spain presented, eyes lighting up. He slumped, hanging it up again and abandoning the rest, moving on to peruse the watches instead.

"Well, no, but I think it's pretty obvious by now," Spain said, pressing his nose to the glass cabinet. He winced at the price of the sparkly watch with the leather strap. "We've been out-" He paused to count on his fingers, "twenty-three and a half times since our first date."

"What was the half...?"

"Oh, he ate some bad mussels at Dominic's and threw up over me so I took him home and put him to bed. After he was done throwing up, anyway. He must've eaten loads that day. I've never seen anyone projectile vomit like that before."

France made a face like he'd smelt something bad. "Lovely."

"We're definitely going out, anyway. Why else would I be buying him a one-month anniversary gift? I already got him a card, so now I just need the perfect present," Spain said. "He's pretty hard to buy for though. He's kinda finicky."

France sighed. "If you really insist on doing this, then buy a present that means something, not some random tat. Something commemorative to remind him of something you did together. Or...I don't know, have something engraved with the date you first went out."

Spain paused, turned and dragged France into his arms. "Perfect! France, you're a genius!" he cried, attracting the attention of a few other customers. Letting go, he bounced on his toes, fists clenched. "But...but what can I get engraved?"

France rolled his eyes.

Romano stared at the box Spain had placed in his hand. He 'd barely made it through the door before it had been put there, now standing in the hallway to Spain's flat, looking for all the world like there might be a black scorpion hiding inside.

"Go on, open it!" Spain laughed, nudging Romano's hand.

Romano swallowed. Spain was practically shaking with excitement, Romano carefully tugging the end of the ribbon, letting it fall around his hand and then wiggling the black lid off the box to reveal a silver chain, a dog tag attached to the end of it. "What's this for?" he asked, Spain's excitement faltering for only a second. He pulled the chain free, letting it dangle for a moment before lowering it to Romano's palm.

"See these dates?" he said, pointing to two small inscriptions. "That's the date we first started going out and that one underneath is the date of our first month anniversary - today! The rest is for any other special dates like...like, I don't know, our first year anniversary or um...y'know, that kind of thing."

Spain's lips started to twitch the longer the following silence went on until his smile fell altogether. Romano looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach, right under the ribcage, right in that squishy bit between lungs and stomach. He was pale too and Romano was rarely pale, cheeks always flushed with a healthy bit of red. "Why..." he began, fingers closing around the tag. "Why the fuck did you buy this?"

Spain's brow knitted. "For our first month anniversary..." he said softly, cautiously, not so confident anymore. His swallowed nervously, an unsettling ache bubbling in the pit of his belly. "We started going out a month today and I thought it'd be nice to-"

"Since when are we going out?" Romano demanded, shoving the tag back into the box and the box back into Spain's hand. Spain could only stare at it. "When did I agree to that?"

It was Spain's turn to look like he'd been punched, only it felt like someone had thumped him in the centre of his chest wearing a gauntlet of spikes. "I...I just thought-"

"Well you fucking thought wrong, didn't you? I don't remember you asking me out and I certainly don't remember saying 'yes'."

"But it's been a month and...and we've seen each other nearly every day and we've made love twenty-six times so..."

"So what? That...t-that automatically makes us an item, does it?"

"Roma, don't get mad."

"Don't tell me what to do! And don't fucking call me that!" Romano was frantically tugging his jacket back on, eyes on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you? We fuck a few times and that means we're going out? What the hell fantasy world are you living in, Spain? We're not going out. I'm not your boyfriend."

Spain's lip trembled. "W-where are you going?"

"I'm not staying here." Romano had put his hand on the latch when Spain grabbed his arm, shoving him back against the door, kissing him desperately, hoping Romano would understand his feelings a little better for it. For a split second only, Romano returned it, whimper caught in the back of his throat before he shoved him away. Spain heard the sound of Romano slapping him before he felt the sobering sting, stumbling back in surprise. It gave Romano all the time he needed to make his exit, leaving Spain staring, dumbstruck, at the empty space he'd left behind in his doorway and in his heart. 

_Eighty: 22:24_

"What the _fuck_, Spain? What the fuck!"

Romano was pacing in front of the sofa, clutching his phone. The suit jacket he'd been wearing was crumpled on the other side of the room where he'd hurled it, his shirt untucked in his rush up the stairs, hair tousled from the moment Spain had tried to kiss him into calming down. "You wanna explain that? I'd love to fucking hear it!"

Spain was leaning against the closed living room door, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Romano's tantrum to fizzle out. His head was pounding with thoughts and alcohol and he was in no mood for another one of _these_ arguments, the kind that left him with a hand-shaped mark on his cheek and a cold, empty bed. This wasn't his fault. No way could it be his fault.

"It was an innocent kiss, Roma. How much have you had to drink?"

"An 'innocent kiss'? I saw you, Spain, waiting until my God damn back was turned to put the moves on him! What happened before I came in, huh? Was that a goodbye kiss?"

Sighing, Spain slid to his arse, raking fingers through his hair, watching the tips of his shoes as he wiggled his toes. Romano had made him buy a pair of formal black boots for occasions and it felt like his feet had been encased in a layer of concrete all evening. "Roma, I wouldn't hurt you like that. He was upset, we talked a bit while you were busy with _Belgium_ and I hugged him and kissed his cheek afterwards, which was when you came in. There's nothing sordid about it."

"'Busy with Bel'? Is that why you did it, because I was paying more attention to Belgium than I was to you?" Romano growled, his pacing pausing. He was breathing hard, tears precarious on the edges of his eyelashes. Spain said nothing, digging knuckles into his eyes.

"Well?"

"Well, you were, Romano. Paying Bel a lot of attention, I mean."

Romano reeled, clutching his phone tighter. "So that...so...so that is the reas-"

"No, it's not the fucking reason, Romano!" Spain yelled, hands falling. His anger deflated like a balloon a moment later, expression imploring. "I don't know what else I can tell you beyond the truth, cariño. Why can't you just trust me?"

"When have you ever given me a reason to 'just trust' you?"

"When have I ever _not_! It's not my fault you won't talk to me!"

Romano faltered, wracking his brain for that reason, the turning cogs finding nothing. He turned away, shoving his thumbnail between his teeth, glaring at Dali's _Windmills_ strung up crooked above the bookshelf. Spain's eyes softened. He rose to his feet, approaching with caution, neither punched nor pushed away when his arms wound around Romano's middle, nose nuzzling through his hair to the back of his neck, pressing a kiss to the top of his spine. Feeling his defeated shiver, Spain smiled softly. "I'm only interested in Romano. Always Roma forever. Please believe me. Please."

The tension holding Romano's limbs taught sank through his toes, but despite the merry dance in his mind for placating him, Spain knew this wasn't an end to the matter. Still, he was tired and his feet were hurting and his head was aching and all he really wanted was to climb into the shower, slide into bed with his beloved and forget this evening had ever happened.

"Mmm, you smell so nice," Spain sighed, shuffling close after climbing into his modest sized wooden-framed double, swathed in soft sheets and an unnecessary volume of pillows, most of which were on the floor. Romano's skin was sticky with heat, damp hair drying into natural curls. Entirely naked, his legs were half twisted in the sheets, one arm trapped beneath a recently flipped pillow, trying to cool himself off. Spain admired him for a few seconds before he could no longer resist, reaching to brush fingertips along his side, amused when muscles twitched in ticklish glee. Romano made a noise of complaint, rolling onto his front.

"Don't. Too hot," he moaned, closing his eyes. His legs shifted apart all the same, Spain's fingers drawing meaningful patterns at the curve of his rear. Lifting up, he pressed a kiss to his shoulder then rested his chin there, smiling.

"Do you want me to get the fan down from the attic?" Fingers continued lower, hand shifting flat to smooth his palm over a plush cheek. "It's only a little one, but it might help you to sleep better."

A grunt. Spain laughed, squeezing his arse slowly. "Mind if we make love first? You look so sexy, I can't help myself."

"M'tired, Spain," Romano said, sounding it. "And don't say 'make love', you fucking fruit."

"I'll be quick..."

Romano snorted. Spain laughed again. "I will! Please~ please, please, please."

An unintelligible noise followed, Romano twisting to look at him, ensuring Spain knew that he was most definitely doing him a favour by humouring him. His annoyance was met with a kiss, Spain knowing he'd won this time, already reaching for the lube on the bedside table. Romano jumped when a generous amount was dribbled over his cheeks, sliding like honey over his thighs.

"Y'could've fucking warmed it up fir-aah...ah...f-fuck..."

Spain grinned, two fingers buried inside him with delicious ease, already moving, coating, stroking, taking great pleasure in silky heat tightening around him. "So, are we friends again now?" he whispered, using their position to his advantage, slowing his fingers and pressing down; manipulative, yes, but a useful tool against someone with a temper like Romano's, his body locking up with need and want and tension, ready for and willing to do absolutely anything. Lips met skin, soft and fleeting and warm, tender like all of Spain's touches; then teeth and tongue, sudden and rough, marking jaw, neck, shoulder, eager moans encouraging harder bites, deeper fingers.

"If...if you never speak to my brother again," Romano said quietly, voice strained. He was propped on his elbows now, head hanging between his arms, hips lifting slowly. His hair was frantic with curls, wild and unkempt, just one of the many things Spain found so adorable about him, somewhere in the middle of the endless, extending list.

Spain paused. "Don't say things like that, Roma."

"I'm serious, Spain." The bed creaked when Romano shifted, pushing Spain's hand away to roll onto his side, looking at him levelly. His voice was calm and low, still laced with lust. "If you care about me..."

"_Romano_," Spain said, shaking his head. "I know you don't mean that. You wouldn't be that mean."

"Wouldn't I?" Romano shot, flopping onto his front. "I saw the looks you were giving him."

"What looks, Romano?" Spain growled, turning onto his back, irritated to have tripped into this argument all over again. "He's my gorgeous boyfriend's little brother. He's cute, yeah, but that's as far as it goes. I'm not gonna' ignore the kid just because you say so and I know you're probably gonna' accuse me and yell at me, but that's just the way it has to be. Grown-ups don't ignore people for no good reason."

Wrenching the sheets over his shoulder, Spain rolled onto his side with his back to Romano, reaching to flick off the bedside lamp, no longer in the mood. He could feel Romano's eyes on him, could practically hear the cogs turning in his mind, but he said nothing else. Spain didn't know what was worse; his silence but for the sheets shuffling as he settled into bed, or the yelling he had been expecting. 

_Thirty-Seven: 19:18_

"Seriously? Fucking Dali? That's the best you've got?" Romano - Romano, Romano, Romano, that was his name, Romano L. Vargas, 24, assistant gallery director, thoroughbred Italian, 5'8", killer wardrobe, wears Jean Paul Gautier _Le Male_, hates oranges, loves cats, is feisty, passionate, utterly, entirely breathtaking Romano - was saying, haughtily parading his wine in front of Spain's face. "Come on, that's such a fucking cliche. Did you just type 'famous painters' into Google and pull that one out first or is it just because he's Spanish. Jesus."

Spain smiled serenely, swiping a bead of condensation from the rim of his San Miguel and sucking it into his mouth, mumbling around his finger, "I like Dali. I could look at his paintings for hours and hours. They're so...colourful."

Romano scoffed. "'Colourful'? Fuck that. There's more to Dali's work than just colour. He was a creepy motherfucker, so what does that say about you?" It wasn't said with any malice, Romano smiling widely, looking over the menu in front of him, tongue sliding over his lower lip. Spain watched in rapt fascination until it darted back inside.

La Cucina was Spain's favourite bar-restaurant, nestled between an old-time theatre always full of those pretentious types with their skinny cigarettes and ash-stained glasses, and a music store always parading the same old instruments in the window, gathering dust and memories. Spain frequented it of course (he only lived a few streets away), but seemed to be the only patron. It made him wonder how the place managed to stay afloat, though he enjoyed the quiet, the opportunity to nestle a guitar in his lap and strum in peace, inventing love-addled little tunes, dreaming up fantasies of singing them to his lover someday.

"I don't know, what do you think it says about me?" Spain answered, reaching across the table, fingertips following the hard bumps of Romano's knuckles. He wasn't offended when Romano snatched his hand away, cheeks alight with colour, both hands retreating to the relative safety of his lap where he started to tear his serviette into long, rectangular strips.

"I-I think it says you're...you're..." He shrugged, eyes lifting to meet Spain's, twinkling. "You're different."

"Different?"

Romano sighed, his smile a little distant. "Different."

"Is that a good thing?" Spain asked, hand still where it had fallen post-caress as if waiting for Romano's to return. They drummed impatiently on the tabletop before finding the half-melted candle in the centre, submerging his middle finger and lifting, enjoying the sensation of hot wax like hot kisses. First the burn, then the pleasure.

"I suppose it is, yeah," he answered. "Different makes someone unpredictable. I like unpredictable."

Spain was suddenly aware of a bare toe creeping up the inside of his ankle, brushing over the bone and higher, sliding into the leg of creased jeans. He carried on smiling, glancing down as if he could see through the table, wanting to check what he thought was happening was genuinely happening, but judging by Romano's cock-eyed smirk, it was definitely happening.

"So um... who was that girl you were with?" he continued as if nothing was happening, not the delightfully tickly sensation of skin upon skin or the tingles giggling as they trickled into his groin.

"Hm?"

"That girl in the red dress the day I asked you out. Who was she?"

"Oh, Regina?" Romano answered as if Spain would suddenly recollect knowing her. His toe slid higher, fingers entwining under his chin as he leaned forward. "Why do you want to know? You jealous?"

"Yes."

Romano stared at him for a moment, then his gaze fell to the candle and Spain's hand covered in blobs of cooling wax. He shifted his gaze a few inches left to Spain's half-eaten, messily buttered bread roll and sat back again, hands returning to his ragged serviette "She's my granddad's new assistant. That was her first day so I said I'd take her to lunch. I'm showing her around this weekend because she's new to the city."

"Ah, so it wasn't a date?" Spain asked. Marginally less flustered, Romano met his gaze again.

"What would you have said if it _had_ been a date?"

Spain smiled slowly, reaching across the table to catch the lock of hair falling from behind Romano's ear. Fingertips caught the line of his jaw, sweeping his hair back into place, lingering for longer than necessary, rough edge of his thumb smoothing circles over a hot cheek. "I would have wooed you until you forgot all about everyone else," he said softly, thumb drifting to Romano's ever-so-red lips dying to be kissed, tracing the plump path from one corner to the other. He exhaled slowly. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

It was like an alarm ripping the sleeping from wonderful dreams, Romano jerking away, all of his limbs tugged back into his bubble of personal space. Spain mourned the loss of contact, confused by the change of atmosphere. "Don't say stupid shit, bastard. I don't need to hear fucking platitudes, I'm not a girl."

"B-bas...p-platit... Romano, that's not...did I say something wrong?" he asked worriedly, trying to reach for something, anything, hand outstretched to encourage Romano back to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Forgive me?"

Romano huffed, shrugging. "I fucking forgive you, idiot."

Spain made a pleased noise, smile returning, glad Romano's anger was short-lived. But for the remainder of the evening, his lovely little toes never shifted from his shoes; his fingers never crossed the halfway point of the table; his eyes barely even lifted to meet Spain's while he chattered. He was worried he'd ruined everything until later in the evening, after driving them back to his place so Romano could pick up the coat he'd left there, Romano - still standing in the open doorway to his flat - dragged him down by his hair and kissed him full on the mouth.

Like he'd had an electric shock to the base of his spine, Spain leapt into action, kicking the door shut. He slammed Romano into it - briefly paused to apologise - clawing for purchase to kiss him frantically, wanting this, needing this. Hands explored every available inch of him, memorising the texture of his hair, the sweet, unplaceable scent it left on his fingers, the way his lashes fluttered when Spain's fingers caught the unmistakeable bump of a nipple and then recklessly fingered it.

Romano made a series of guttural noises, predatory almost, a feral cat about to strike. The sounds rippled inside Spain's chest, made him hot all the way down to his toes. A pointed fang dragged over the juncture of his jaw, tongue leaving a hot wet trail to his collar, Spain all the while thoroughly examining every inch of him, fingers following the glockenspiel bumps of Romano's ribs to hips swelling over the waistband of his trousers, down to his thighs which, in one impossibly easy movement, were hoisted around Spain's middle.

Romano pulled away to gasp, glancing down at the position, shoulder blades aching. "Are you gonna' fuck me or not, bastard?" he growled, voice ragged with arousal.

Spain felt a pang in his chest, the word not one he associated with affection. Hoisting Romano higher, Spain lifted them both away from the door and staggered to his bedroom, falling to the bed with Romano in his arms.

"Have...have you done this before?" Spain whispered for no reason other than it seemed right to. He could see Romano's blush even in the fading light. "It's okay if you haven't. I'll be careful."

"I-I'm not a virgin, dammit," Romano answered, though his eyes wouldn't meet Spain's. Spain had no reason to doubt him (though the fact made him a little sad), but he was careful none the less, preparing him slowly until Romano was a withering mess. The moment they were connected, Spain felt the overwhelming echo deep in his heart, his soul soaring, singing. It was all so perfect, even as Romano rolled them over, riding him slow and hard, muttering to himself in sweet, hushed Italian.

When he looked down, caught Spain's eye and gave him a Cheshire grin, it was the end for Spain.

He was in love. 

_Eighty : 19:30_

Spain yelped when Romano cracked him across the backside with the flat of his palm. "You look sexy," he whispered in his ear, tugging his lobe with his teeth. "Even if I do say so myself."

Spain had been admiring Romano's handiwork in the mirror. It was a novelty having someone dress him, especially someone with the impeccable taste Romano was blessed with. He rubbed his arse, grinning. It wasn't like he was going to disagree; he knew he was a looker after all, he just wasn't the sort to flaunt it, preferring to loaf around in baggy jeans, tangled hair and lacklustre socks. Romano, as usual, looked perfectly groomed in dark grey slacks, polished brown boots and a white shirt, Swarovski cufflinks neatly pinching his sleeves. He'd sidestepped his usual aftershave for a spritz of Hugo Boss _Orange_ (Spain liked it because of the name, as well as the smell. He had a penchant for being called 'boss' in bed), hair swept behind his ears with two fingertips-worth of Fudge hair clay.

"You ready to go?" he asked, shoving Spain aside so he could adjust his collar in the hall mirror. He'd forgone a tie, first three buttons left undone. Spain hadn't been able to keep his eyes off the teasing dip of his collar since he got dressed.

He nodded, holding his hand out for Romano to take. Only a little hurt when it was ignored, he followed Romano out to the car, sliding into the passenger seat, immediately fiddling with the radio to find his favourite station. His hand was smacked when Romano slid into the driver's seat. "I've told you before about changing my God damn station. I'm not listening to your trashy pop music," he said, despite leaving the station on for the entirety of the drive to his brother's place.

"Romano, you made it!"

Spain looked over the man jogging down the path to a house not entirely dissimilar to Romano's, surprised by how much he resembled his lover; a little thinner, perhaps, and a little less weathered. He smiled when the man gathered Romano in his arms, laughed when Romano rolled his eyes and awkwardly patted his back. "Course we fucking made it, I said we would," he answered, hands on his brother's forearms holding him back. He nodded at Spain. "This is him. Say hello."

"Hi! I'm Italy!" he announced, taking a step forward. Romano yanked him back by the belt.

"No hugging, I already told you," he growled. Italy smiled sheepishly, instead holding out his hand.

"It's good to finally meet you. Romano's told me all about you."

Spain positively beamed, loosely shaking Italy's hand. "Has he really?" He looked over at his lover. "Did you really? That's so cute of you, Roma. Thank you."

Romano's cheeks burst with colour. "S-shut up,it's not a big deal, I just got sick of him bugging me with questions, that's all!" he cried, throwing his arms in the air. He was stomping inside the house a second after, shoving past a blond gentleman waiting patiently by the front door and vanishing. Spain dozily smiled after him, sighing.

"Come on in and help yourself to food and drink!" Italy said on his way inside. He offered the man by the door a smile, Spain noticing the way it faltered when the smile was met with a curt nod. Continuing inside, Spain said a further few hellos to faces he didn't know, gave a nod and a charming grin here and there, wondering where Romano had gone. Italy pushed a glass of Peroni into his hands when he wandered into the kitchen, apologising for not getting San Miguel, and was off again, buzzing from guest to guest like a honey bee from flower to flower.

Left alone, Spain absently wandered around the place, feeling lost. He started a conversation with one of Romano's cousins, a pretty young girl sitting at the dining room table with a Nintendo DS on her lap, but she soon got bored of his musings about her 'grumpy older cousin' and retreated to the garden. Alone again, Spain helped himself to the food laid out on a trestle table by the patio doors, disappointed when he came to the bottom of his bottle.

With something to do, he went searching for the recycling bin, carefully sliding it amongst the precarious pyramid of cans and bottles before being collared by a very drunk Italian lady in her mid-fifties dressed like she was stuck in the 1920s. Twice she tried to kiss him before Spain managed to make his exit, apologising profusely to her and walking away as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Tired of being alone, he poked his head into every room, asking every person who caught his gaze if they knew where Romano was. Sick of hearing him pine, a tiny little boy with a toy dinosaur in his hands snapped, "he's upstairs, stop asking!"

Spain nodded, heading into the hall. He paused at the bottom of the stairs when he caught sight of Romano, an empty glass of wine between his feet and a pretty blonde in a green floral dress perched next to him on the top step. He was smiling, laughing, their fingers tightly entwined. For a long time Spain stood and watched the way Romano's eyes searched every inch of her face, the way they wrinkled at the corners when he laughed, the way they drooped when she whispered something in his ear. Blood pounded in his ears, the noise and the chatter drowned by the static sound of jealousy in his head.

He couldn't watch anymore, the way Romano's thumb smoothed across the back of her hand, the way he licked his lips while she spoke, the way they nearly brushed the skin of her cheek when he leaned in to speak.

Fists clenched, he raged through the house, heading for the kitchen where he knew he would find more alcohol. Grabbing the first bottle he saw, he downed half in one go and the following half upon the second gulp, slamming the bottle on the side. Head spinning, he leaned against the fridge, taking long, deep breaths. Fingers flexing at his side, he lifted them to his tie, loosening it.

"O-oh, sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here."

Spain looked up, Italy standing in the doorway. He looked distressed, despite his forced smile. "Are you okay, Ita?" Spain asked, standing properly. Italy laughed softly. Then he erupted, eyes starting to stream. Spain moved instinctively, gathering him up, pressing Italy's cheek to his chest. "Hey, hey, you shouldn't be crying at your own birthday party, shhh."

"I-it...i-it's just...h-he..." Italy began, fingers curling in Spain's shirt. "H-he doesn't want me. I love him, Spain and he doesn't w-want me."

"Who doesn't?" Spain asked softly, idly stroking his hair. "Who wouldn't want you? You're so cute!"

Italy pulled away from him, looking a little embarrassed. Wiping his eyes on his sleeves, he shrugged, trying his very hardest to smile. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't've done that. We only just met!" He laughed weakly. "Don't...don't tell Romano about this, okay? He'll only get pissed off again and then he won't talk to me for weeks and -oops! Ah, sorry, he's always telling me I ramble. I suppose I do a bit, don't I?"

Spain smiled sympathetically. "I won't say anything. If you want to talk, I'll happily listen." Anything to distract him from the fingers tightening around his heart and the anger pooling in his gut. "I know we've only just met, but you can trust me. Just ask Romano! Not that he really tells me very much for him to learn _to_ trust me, ha...haha. Hey, who's that blond girl he's sitting with, by the way?"

A little wide-eyed, Italy replied, "Probably Belgium." He wiped his eyes again. "She's super nice. She's always been a good friend to Romano. He doesn't open up to many people."

"Oh. Okay." Spain forced a broad smile, leaning down to press a kiss to Italy's cheek. "Whoever it is, he'll figure out how you feel and he'll love you back, I'm-"

"What the fuck is this?"

Both of them jumped, turning to face Romano, his hand still on the door handle. Italy's words about keeping this to himself resonated in his ears, so he said the first thing that came to mind. "Ah...nothing, cariño."

Definitely a wrong answer.

Romano's lips pursed. He knew a lie when he heard one, eyes narrowing at his little brother.

"We're leaving." 

_Seventy-Five: 09:27_

Spain had been staring listlessly at a half-sculpted rabbit for the best part of an hour, chisel providing a dangerous headrest, handle snug under his chin, blade digging into the wood of his crafting table. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this miserable, eyes shifting to the phone in front of him, willing it to light up with a message or a call from the man that had teased his heart with sweet words and sweeter kisses. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under his bed and hide the way he used to when he was a kid. His mama would always find him, comfort him, cuddle him, tell him everything would be absolutely fine in the end.

Anyone watching would think Spain a lunatic when he smiled dozily. Letting the chisel fall to the safety of the table, he reached for his phone, knowing his mama's number off-by-heart.

"Sweetheart~ it's so good to hear from you," she cried, her voice warm and sugary. "Are you okay? I got your flowers, thank you so much. Such a lovely boy."

"Ah, I'm glad, mama," Spain said, comforted by the sound of her voice alone. "Listen, I need some advice if you've got time to talk."

She laughed softly. Spain could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke, realising then how desperately he missed her. "I've always got time to talk to you, España, you know that. What's wrong?"

Spain took a deep breath, pulling the half-sculpted rabbit closer. Holding his phone between shoulder and ear, he picked up a smaller chisel and carried on where he'd left off, distracted enough from his problems to work.

"Mama, I've met someone," he admitted, brushing a layer of sawdust from the table. "I'm in love with him. He's so completely perfect. He makes my heart ache."

She squealed. Spain could almost see her bouncing up and down on the window seat in her bedroom and waving over his papa to listen in. "Oh, I'm so happy for you! Tell your mama all about him!"

"Ah, there's so much I could tell you. He's cute and he's charming and he gets all embarrassed and shy whenever I pay him a compliment, though sometimes he gets kind of mad, but not all the time," Spain explained, picking up a small piece of sandpaper, smoothing it firmly over a curved ear. "He's just... He's passionate. He's so sweet one minute and flying off the handle the next. I can't keep up sometimes, y'know? And he just...he drives me crazy!"

"So, what's the problem, sweetheart?"

Spain laughed weakly. "I don't know. I upset him, I think. A lot. Ha...haha..." He trailed off, blowing some more sawdust from the well of the rabbit's ear, blinking furiously when some hit his eyes. "I got him a one month anniversary present and he got really angry about it. He said he's not my boyfriend and then he left and now he won't answer my calls or texts. It's been a week, mama. What should I do?"

"Well, you know where he lives don't you?" she replied softly. "Go and see him. Say you're not going away until he lets you in. Ah, how romantic~"

"Do you think that will work?"

"Your papa used to do that all the time! And look at us now," she said, tone nostalgic. She laughed then, voice distant and girlish, "Oh don't give me that look, you loved it when I played hard to get."

"Is that papa?"

"It is~"

"Say hi to him for me."

"España says hello, love!"

A man's voice called 'hello, mijito!' Spain smiled, pleased to hear his parents' voices. "So, you think I should go to his place? Should I serenade him?"

"Hmm, don't serenade him, you might disturb his neighbours and get him into trouble."

"Okay, mama," Spain said, breathing in deeply. "Thank you. Can I come and see you soon? I miss you both."

"You can come and see us whenever you like. Love you~"

"Love you mama! Papa, too! Speak soon!" Spain said. His heart already felt lighter as he hung up, his determination to win Romano back renewed. He smiled as he dropped his phone back into his pocket, already working on what he was going to say in his head. Not entirely trusting himself to remember it all, he grabbed his notebook from the side of the table and quickly started scribbling bullet points to remind himself. When he was done, he finished sculpting the little rabbit, dusted it off and carefully placed it in a box with a layer of bubble wrap, ready to posted.

Spain rarely felt a stint in confidence. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt uncomfortable or nervous about anything, which was why, upon pulling up outside Romano's house that evening, he lingered in his car, tapping the steering wheel, trying to gear himself up to walk up the short driveway and ring the doorbell. Romano's Fiat Punto was on the drive (a white 09 with the stripes of the Italian flag zipping up over the bonnet, the roof and down to the boot - so, that meant he was in. Or had gone for a walk. Spain didn't know which he preferred.

He wondered if Romano had noticed him outside, if he was trying to ignore him, if he had slipped out the back door and run for the hills. The latter in mind, he took a deep breath and climbed out, closing the door, locking the car and striding purposefully to the front door. Only faltering once on his journey to the doorbell, he firmly pressed the button, then shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels.

Spain looked around while he waited, noticing for the first time that the doormat beneath his feet read 'F*** Off'. He laughed. He'd never seen it before, usually too busy staring into Romano's eyes or at his retreating arse or kissing him messily, eager to get them both indoors to fuck him senseless. Taking a step back, he took in all of the other things he'd missed, like the hanging basket beside the living room window, the neatly tended to front garden, the freshly painted front door. The windowsills matched, powder blue, pristine. The whole house was pristine, painted cream, decal petals winding around the windows, ivy-like from a distance. It was...it was pretty. Spain couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before, all the effort Romano must have gone to to keep it looking this way, this old town house aching with history.

He jumped when the door swung open, there standing Romano, shirt half untucked, shoeless, sockless, t-shirt on backwards. Spain looked him over twice before he met his eyes, eyes that wouldn't meet his. Everything Spain wanted to say was forgotten, gathering Romano into his arms when he staggered forwards, holding him tight to his chest. Large, gentle hands soothed him, quiet endearments comforted him, reassuring Romano that everything - everything - would be alright, he was there now, he would always be there for him, always.

Romano made a strangled noise, fingers knotting into the back of his shirt. "P-please don't leave me," he begged, burying his nose beneath his chin. "I'm s-sorry. I didn't mean to- p-please don't leave me."

Spain sighed against his hair, then inhaled, reminding himself of that addictive scent, taking it all in, wanting to feel it in his veins. Protectiveness surged in his belly. "What's the matter, cariño? Who hurt you?"

"N-no-one, dammit, i-it's nothing, just shut up and come inside," Romano stammered, taking Spain's hand to pull him indoors, cheeks red.

Romano sat him down in the living room before disappearing to get coffee for them both. Spain had a sneaking suspicion Romano's had a good lug of brandy in it, but he kept the thought to himself, watching him swig and swig and swig until he'd drained the cup. When the room fell quiet, Spain reached across to brush his cheek, softly saying, "Roma, tell me what's-"

"Nothing's wrong! It's fine. I'm fine, everything is fine," he said quickly, refilling his cup. His hands were shaking. "There's absolutely nothing to talk about so just drop it because I'm fine, okay? Everything is great."

"It's not though, is it? You're upset," Spain continued gently, shifting nearer. His hand smoothed up and down Romano's thigh, hoping it was comforting at the very least.

Romano closed his eyes, taking three slow, deep breaths. Calmly he leaned over to place his cup down, sitting back, grasping Spain's fingers and squeezing reverently once, twice, as if gearing himself up. In the next moment he was kissing and biting warm skin, tugging Spain's clothes, fingers sliding over his firm abdomen, yanking his belt from the security of their loops, wrenching open his jeans to reach what was inside. Spain broke their kiss to giggle, grasping Romano's wrists, panting and confused. "Ro-"

"Please. Please," Romano begged. Spain met his gaze, trying with every ounce of brainpower he had to read his mind. When that failed, he gave in to him, dragging him forward to kiss him, arms wrapping around him to hold him tight and secure, wishing he could translate the feelings in his heart into a language Romano would understand.

Afterwards, when Romano had fallen asleep squished between Spain's body and the back of the sofa, legs still akimbo his waist, Spain cleaned him, dressed him and pulled a throw up to his shoulders. Leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips, he made himself comfortable on the seat opposite and patiently waited for Romano to wake up.

_End of Part 1~_


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the reviews and favourites and so on. I really appreciate it - I have no idea what reviewing etiquette is, so I apologise if I'm inadvertently being rude. Please enjoy part 2.

**Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days**  
><span><strong>Part 2<strong>

_Fifty-Five 18:03  
><em>

"So you're a sculptor?" Romano said, fingertips smoothing over the chipped and peeling surface of Spain's worktop. His tools were wrapped in a tatty, paint weathered soft case on his stool, on which his name was scrawled in permanent marker along with a smiley face and a heart. There was a partly carved mermaid in the corner, pretty head emerging from a cylindrical piece of wood like a grotesque, splintering childbirth.

Romano winced, looking over the smaller sculptures arranged at the back of the workshop, each one tagged with a name, date and address. On the far side of the table were six or seven skyscrapers of boxes in varying sizes, four rolls of masking tape and twelve rolls of brown parcel paper.

"That's me," Spain said, shrugging, hovering by the open door. His cheeks were a little flushed. It felt like a disturbed nest of butterflies had scattered in his belly. His head was spinning. He never allowed anyone inside his workshop. Romano didn't realise how lucky he was.  
>"Um, those ones aren't really very good. My bigger carvings are better, I guess, but I don't get commissioned to do them very often."<p>

"Is that what you like doing most?" Romano asked, picking up a stone kitten curled on its back, batting a ball of wool. He lifted it to the light, smiling at the signature on the bottom, then put it back amongst it's obscure companions; toadstools and gnomes, hedgehogs and cars; an Eiffel Tower and an Erotic Gherkin. "The bigger sculptures, I mean. Do you do those here, too?"

Spain cocked his head. "Sculptures?" he repeated, brightening for a moment. He sagged afterwards, shrugging. "They're not really sculptures. It's not art or anything, it's kinda just something I like doing. I do most of the small and medium commissions here. Making garden stuff gets a bit boring though. I like it when clients just gimme a really loose spec. and tell me to use my imagination."

Romano had paused in front of a collage of photos on the wall beside the worktop, examining every shot closely. Reaching up, he plucked the central photo free, Spain breaking from his spot of safety to approach him, curiously peering over his shoulder. "What's this? Did you win a prize?" Romano asked, lifting it to his eyes. Spain plucked it from his fingers, smiling at the memory of a time when he was fresh-faced and eager.

"Yeah. Best newcomer at my local art festival," he answered, thumb brushing a gangly image of himself, goofy grin and all, standing beside a rather spectacular wooden dragon's head. He could remember the whole day like it was yesterday, all excitement, pride and ambition. The designs for the piece were still pinned to the back of his door at his childhood home, dog-eared and seeping brown with age. Looking back, he couldn't quite pinpoint when his life had swerved from the path he had been ambling along for so long.

"Ah, I was so young then," he continued, sticking the photo back into its rightful place. Leaning down to press a kiss to Romano's hair (and taking the opportunity to enjoy the scent), he pointed to the photo above, expression doting. "Those're my parents and my big brother, Porty."

Romano leaned up on his toes. "Your mamma is stunning," he said smoothly. Spain glanced at him, his heart twisting just a little bit. He pushed the feeling aside, deciding he should appreciate the compliment on behalf of his mama. It wasn't as though Romano hadn't spoken the truth and it wasn't like he had been the first man to say it. "You look just like your papa."

He looked Spain up and down quickly. "Well, you're a bit shorter and a bit less...rugged, but other than that," he added, waving. Taking a step back, he glanced over the rest, absorbing faces and smiles and gestures, and then drifted away, wandering around the room, touching carvings and tools and objects he didn't recognise, picking them up and turning them over like he was searching for clues to a devious crime. Spain's chest filled with heat. Romano - Romano, _his_Romano, all his - was leaving traces of himself like Midas' touch, echo of his fingertips bouncing from one thing to the next. He unrolled some plans to examine, leaning across Spain's worktop on his elbows with his chin nestled in the palm of his hand.

Turning back to the wall of photos, Spain scrutinised the image of his smiling papa, trying to recollect his own image to compare. He'd been told he had the same Spanish good looks, but no one had ever said he was shorter and less rugged. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Did Romano want him to be taller, more rugged? What other things did Romano prefer? It hadn't sounded like an insult, but it hadn't sounded much like a compliment either.

When he turned, Romano had gone. Spain's eyes swept around the room, over the army of carvings, the fairy-dust sprinkle of sawdust and stonedust drifting in the stream of sunlight from ceiling to floor windows, and finally to the open doorway of the workshop, beyond which was another door to another workplace, another life, another love.

He paused when a distant voice called, "What's this then?"

Following Romano's fading words, he crossed the room and peered behind a black curtain muted by months upon months of dust and shavings, finding Romano circling an impressive wooden model of a Mediterranean mansion, intricately crafted down to the finest details; miniature hinges on windows and doors, minuscule hanging baskets, swans with her signets in the garden. "Is this really yours?" Romano asked breathily, bending to examine it closer. Spain couldn't help casting his eyes over Romano's thighs and backside, trousers pulled taught around firm muscles and soft flesh. He made a vague noise of acknowledgement, staring unashamedly. "Seriously? You really did all of this by yourself?"

Spain nodded, eyes snapping to Romano's when he stood straight and looked over his shoulder. He gave him a sheepish grin. Romano gave him a swift, disapproving look up and down in return and walked round the table, crouching to peer through tiny windows. "Y'making it for someone?" he asked, reaching to jiggle a door. It opened easily, a letterbox carved into the other side and a catflap just below it.

Laughing, he swept through the building like a hurricane, testing doors and windows and hatches, impressed by the design. Spain smiled watching him, pleased that something he had created had so avidly caught his interest.

"Here, the roof comes off," he said, leaning over to gently ease the sloped roof free, even the tiles carved in and a chimney on top. Romano's eyes lit up, lifting onto his toes to take a look inside. "I'm not making it for anyone in particular. It's kinda my side project, y'know? I haven't done much on it for a while. Guess I've been kind of distracted."

Romano flushed at his broad smile when he looked up, standing up straight again. Absently scratching the underside of his chin, he shrugged, dusting off his chinos, then lifted his foot to flick a stray splinter of wood from the strap of his sandal. "You shouldn't get so easily distracted, then," he answered finally, both feet on the floor, now heavily concentrating on rearranging his still perfect shirt. "You can do fucking anything if you just concentrate and focus enough. That's your problem. You don't pay attention."

Spain was staring again, watching the way long fingers smoothed imaginary creases, the way Romano tugged his belt up a little higher to pull in a tiny little pot belly that drove Spain completely insane with lust. Wetting his lips, he murmured, "You can have it when I've finished it."

Romano's head snapped up. "H-huh? W-what...what would _I_ do with it?" he cried, throwing his arms in the air. "It...it's too big. I've got nowhere to put it. You should...you should enter it into a competition or something. There's no use sticking it in my house somewhere to gather dust and shit."

A little disappointed, Spain slotted the roof back on, brushing his hands together. "Oh, okay," he said sadly.

"I-I mean, f-fuck, it's too good to just sit around doing nothing where no one can admire- ah...where no one can _see_ it," Romano stammered, waving dismissively. The corners of Spain's lips twitched. "Just...just finish the fucking thing, okay? Maybe...maybe we can put it in the gallery or something and exhibit it or some shit, I dunno, we'll see, okay?"

Now incapable of hiding his very broad, very bright smile, Spain nodded. "Okay, Romano, whatever you say."

__

_Ninety-Six 18:52_

"Spain, you're not stirring it properly!" Romano yelled, fingers smoothing over the expanse of his arm to grasp the hand holding a long, wooden spoon. Rearranging his fingers, he showed him the way to do it; slow, wide circles. He smacked the back of his head with his free hand for his ineptitude. "I've told you three times now. Pay attention, will you?"

Little did Romano know that Spain was eagerly paying attention to everything Romano was saying and doing. The first time he hadn't been stirring properly had been purely out of laziness (and partly because Romano was bent over in front of the corner cupboard, shoving aside bottles to find the Worcestershire Sauce). The proceeding two times, after Romano had pressed himself close and curled his arms around him, had been very much intentional. "Sorry Roma," he simpered, shaking his head. "I'll get it eventually, I promise. You're such a good teacher. "

Romano muttered something, returning to the mince he was marinating. His cheeks were red with more than exertion, Spain keeping this charming realisation to himself and finally doing as he was told - he didn't _want_ to ruin the sauce, after all. There was nothing worse than a poorly prepared dinner. Besides, he would get all the blame and would end up paying for a takeaway or to take them to dinner, not that he _minded_ at all, but he hadn't had as many commissions as he would have liked that month and some belt tightening had been necessary to get him by.

"Shove over a bit," Romano demanded, nudging Spain aside with his hip to slam a wok on the hob. He splashed a healthy glug of olive in and turned up the heat, scooping in chopped onions and garlic, then the mince. They were both quiet for some time until Romano said, "there's an exhibition and auction on at the gallery on Friday."

Spain smiled, looking over. "Really? Who's it for, or is it a mix of artists?"

"Just some elitist hotshot who thinks too much of himself," he answered, shrugging. "It'll probably be pretty boring, but, I mean, you don't _have_ to come or anything, but if you, well, if you wanted to then I wouldn't mind so long as you didn't touch anything or cause any trouble."

A bubble in the sauce exploded with particular ferocity. Spain's eyes widened. "You...you're asking me to go with you?" he said, voice hushed like he was afraid someone might hear. Romano shifted from foot to foot, lifting one to scratch his calf. "You're actually asking me out on an official date?"

"It's not a date!" Romano cried, furiously breaking up a chunk of mince. "I'm just asking in case you had nothing better to do or...I don't know, are you coming or not?"

Spain didn't bother to put down the wooden spoon before gathering Romano into his arms, splattering sauce on the cupboard next to them, promptly ignoring the protests and complaints and cuddling Romano with all his might. "You're so cute! So fucking cute!" he mumbled against his neck, Romano all the while struggling - albeit weakly. Spain stepped back, leaning in to peck his lips. "Of _course_ I'm coming! I wouldn't miss the chance to spend even more time with my Roma. Plus, I'll get to meet all of your important work people."

Romano groaned. "_Please_ don't do anything to embarrass me," he said, resignedly sprinkling salt over the meat. He took the spoon out of Spain's hands to test the sauce, then leaned over to flick off the heat.

"I won't, I'll be good!" Spain cried, excited. "Ah, but...do I have to wear those shoes again? They really hurt my feet. Can't I go in my snea-"

"No, you cannot go in your fucking sneakers, Spain," Romano interrupted, waving the spoon under his nose. Spain went crossed-eyed watching it. "Your shoes just need wearing in a bit. They can't be _that_ uncomfortable, they're Italian leather. They practically mould to the shape of your feet. I did tell you to wear them around your flat as much as possible."

Spain pouted. "But Roma-"

"No buts, you're wearing them," Romano said curtly, taking the saucepan off the hob and ladling the sauce into a bowl. Spain whined in the back of his throat, leaning against the sideboard with his arms folded, grumpy. Taking some pity on him, Romano leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips. "Don't be in a strop about it, dammit. We don't need to be there for very long. I'll give you a fucking foot massage if you're going to be in that much pain."

Picking up a board with chopped, sun-dried, oil-drenched tomatoes on, Romano ushered them into the wok using the flat of his favourite cooking knife, and stirred everything together. Spain was still pouting. Romano cast a sideways glance at him, nonchalantly scattering basil into the wok. "Also...also, you need to make a good impression."

That caught Spain's attention. He cocked his head. "On who?"

Romano turned away from the pan, coughing into his fist. "My granddad. He said 'it's about time' he got to meet you," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "Kept going on about always being the last one to know about things and how everyone keeps him in the dark yadayadayada, that kinda bullshit. He's such a whiny old bastard. I swear he thinks he's a mafia don sometimes, the way he carries on."

Spain smiled. "You haven't told me very much about your granddad before. I'm looking forward to meeting him!"

"There's not all that much to tell. He's a successful businessman and serial cheat. Well, no that's unfair," Romano said, pouring half the contents of the wok into a large, Pirex dish. He placed a layer of pasta sheets over the top, spooned over some sauce and did a second layer. "He's never cheated on anyone, but he jumps from person to person 'cause he falls in and out of love really easily. He's an all or nothing kind of man."

Spain nodded. "I've known a couple of people like that," he said wistfully, eyes for a single second holding a memory he hadn't visited for a while. He sighed, sliding his arms around Romano's waist, just holding him, indulging in his scent and his spirit. If Spain could read auras, he was sure Romano's would be red; red for passion and power and energy, all the things Spain loved about him.

The cool tip of his nose nudged beneath the corner of Romano's jaw, lips grazing the column of his neck. Quick, nimble fingers brushed his belly. Romano pretended like nothing was happening until he'd completed dinner preparations, finishing it off with a layer of strong English cheese and an extra sprinkle of basil. He waddled to the oven with Spain attached Koala-like to his back and then, wiping his hands on the teatowel, he leaned back against Spain's chest, head lolling over his shoulder.

Lips laid siege to his neck without any hesitation. Romano quietly exhaled through his nose, reaching up to curl fingers in Spain's hair, gripping and combing, half attempting to pull the knots loose, half just feeling and loving. Spain's fingers slid to his hips, carefully pinching a tiny inch of fat. Romano pinched his hands in retaliation, smirking devilishly, his tongue whipping out to slide over his lips, sultry and seductive.

Spain growled. "Sometimes," he whispered, teeth dragging achingly slowly over the firm bridge of his shoulder. Romano twitched and dug his fingernails into Spain's hands, just to test him. Spain squeezed his hips firmly, almost hard enough to hurt, feeling the bones emerge. "Sometimes... sometimes I just wanna' fuck you up."

Romano's breathing hitched, arousal snowballing. He turned in his arms, looking at Spain levelly, _daring_ him to try it, to make a mess of him, to ravish him senseless. Spain's breath was hot and heavy, laced with mint flavoured chocolate, tomato juice and a flirtatious drag of France's cigarette from a flyby visit to his place in the afternoon. He could feel Romano's heart beating against his own chest, an energetic and frantic thudthud, thudthud, thudthud, knowing even before he shoved a thigh between Romano's that he was feeling frisky.

It took less than a second for Romano to start riding his leg, teeth sinking into Spain's cheek as he moved, moaned in the back of his throat. Spain held his hips to help him, lifting his thigh higher, higher until he was forced onto his tiptoes. His legs nearly buckled when Spain shifted, no more than a few inches, enough room to spin Romano to face the kitchen window. His palm pressed flat to his back, forcing him over the counter, free hand tugging his hips to walk him back.

When he pressed the bulge between his legs to Romano's backside, they both moaned softly. After Spain had wrenched his trousers down and prepared him - rough, with kisses to take the edge of - and eased into him, they moaned noisily together, Romano's hands slipping on the surface, trying and failing to find a grip. Spain felt the thrill, chasing a shudder down Romano's spine with his hand as he made love to him. Whenever Romano tried to shuffle forward, Spain dragged him back, further and further until he could only just rest his head on his folded arms atop the counter. Bambi legs buckled underneath him, Spain hoisting him up again, smacking his arse for losing control of himself. "I warned you," he whispered near his ear, tracing the shell with his tongue.

Wail strained, Romano shoved his hips back. Spain was almost,_almost_ caught off guard. He smacked his backside again, clucking his tongue. "You've done it now," he whispered, sugar sweet, hands exploring masculine ridges and flexing muscles, absorbing the strain, drinking it in. Romano clawed the countertop when Spain's hips thrust faster, barely making a noise when his orgasm plummeted the length of his body, splattering the kitchen floor just as Spain found his own, hips stilling, shivering, sinking.

His body felt ragdoll loose, satisfaction seeping into his limbs like ink over parchment. Romano was hanging onto the sideboard for dear life, his chest heaving, hair starting to curl at the ends. He twitched when Spain slid free of him, legs giving way without Spain to keep him upright. Flopping to the floor, he grimaced at the mess there, careful not to put his hand in it.

"That..." Spain began, bent double from exertion. "That...that was..."

He looked down when Romano started to laugh. "_Fuck_, Spain," he said, raking his fringe out of his eyes. His arm flopped by his side again, weak. "Fuck, I didn't know you were..._fuck_."

Spain turned to lean against the cupboards, sliding to the floor. "M-me either," he laughed, wiping his brow with sleeve of his shirt. Tucking himself away, he smiled dozily, picking up Romano's hand to brush kisses over his fingers. They tasted sweet and salty like tomatoes and- "You're shaking. Was that good?"

"Of course I'm fucking shaking. Jesus," Romano answered, tiredly leaning against his shoulder. He stared at the ceiling, blinking spots out of his eyes. "Mmm, I don't think I've ever...not like that...fuck. I can't even speak."

Spain filled up with pride, laughing softly. "That was kinda fun, huh? We should definitely do something like that again some time."

Romano hummed in agreement. His head rolled over his shoulder to look up at him. "You can clean up every time though, bastard, since it's your fault we made a mess."

Spain grinned. "Deal." 

_Seventy-Eight 19:07_

Romano was sitting in his usual seat at the bar, legs crossed, a cocktail between his elbows and a straw between his teeth. Sitting beside him was a man Spain knew quite well, a man he didn't enjoy knowing at all, a man he certainly didn't want his lover to know.

Spain had been late. Not late by much, but late all the same, and every minute that went ticking by he knew would push Romano's mood towards bad, _very_, very bad. _I've had the shittiest day today. I need a drink, meet me at La Cucina_ was Romano's last message, so Spain had rushed out of work to catch the bus, but had forgotten his flat keys in his haste, missing the ten to seven after returning to the workshop. It gave him a reprieve to think of all the ways he was going to make Romano feel better, catching the seven-twenty half an hour later. He knew Romano would have his hide for making him wait, but he knew he could make it up to him.

Arriving precisely 57 minutes late, he frantically searched the place for any sign of his lover, hoping he hadn't decided to go home. He didn't much feel in the mood for grovelling.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Romano said with less irritation in his voice than Spain expected. He could see why when he saw the string of half empty glasses lined up along the bar. Alcohol was Romano's favourite cheer-up charm. Saving that topic for later, he opened his mouth to apologise. Romano quickly interrupted. "Look, whatever, I don't care."

He jerked his thumb towards the blond man on his left, bypassing the straw in his piña colada and downing the rest of it. "This is Netherlands, he's been keeping me comp-"

"Yeah," Spain said through gritted teeth. He slid an arm around Romano's shoulders, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the man as he leaned to press a greeting kiss to Romano's cheek. "We know each other."

Romano only looked mildly surprised. "Oh, really?" He looked between the two of them. "How?"

Spain wet his lips, plucking one of Romano's half full glasses and downing it. He didn't take the time to taste whatever it was, but it sent tingles to the tip of his head and left a distinctively bitter aftertaste. "Met at university, right Nethers?" he answered, arm shifting around Romano's waist. He pressed him against his side, Romano making a disgruntled noise. Netherlands' eyes skirted over him, grin crooked.

"Not changed a bit, Spain," he said, voice all butter wouldn't melt and 'oh, I'm _charmed_ to meet you'. He turned his gaze back to Romano, lifting his drink. "I didn't realise that's who you were talking about. He used to get up to _all_ sorts at university. I'll have to tell you all about it sometime so-"

Spain slammed the empty glass on the bar between them. "You'll tell him fucking _nothing_," he snarled, pushing himself between them. "What the fuck are you doing here, Netherlands? You better not be thinking anything bad about my Roma."

Romano gripped his arm. "Spain, what the hell are you talking about?" he said quietly, confused. "I've known Netherlands for years. He's my friend's brother. We just bumped into each other. Calm the fuck down."

Spain backed down on command, glancing over his shoulder, eyes softening. "Sorry Roma, but this guy is bad news," he said quietly. "You shouldn't talk to him."

"I'll talk to who the fuck I want, Spain. He's my friend," Romano replied, pushing Spain aside. "Why don't you sit down and try making an effort. I got us a Tempranillo for a change. Glass is there. Drink it and shut up."

Spain's cheeks puffed in annoyance. He slunk into the seat on Romano's right, picking up the glass, irritated that all of his plans to cheer Romano up had been swept clean out of the window - along with his pride. He'd vowed at some point in the past that he'd punch Netherlands in the face if he ever saw him again...

When Romano's back was turned, he downed his wine and refilled his glass, listening intently to the conversation Romano was now having with his mortal enemy. Now and then he scoffed, made snide remarks, all the while chugging away glass after glass until the bottle was empty. Tipsy now, he propped his head on his hand, tired and bored and sulky.

"Hey, Roma," he sang, swiveling to wiggle his arms around Romano's middle, nuzzling that sensitive spot on his neck. Tongue and teeth attacked, suckling a bruise that was already there. "Roma, can we go. I want to make you forget all about your bad day."

Romano shrugged him off, rubbing the damp spot on his skin. "Spain, I'm _busy_. If you're just gonna' be a pain, then go home. I'll call you later."

Spain recoiled, hurt. "But...Roma, I thought we were gonna' have a nice drink and-"

Romano huffed. "Looks like you already did that anyway, Spain."

Spain's eyes narrowed a little at his hypocrisy. "Well what about you? How many glasses had _you_ had before I got here?"

"What's that meant to mean?"

"Nothing, I just..."

"You just _what_, Spain? You know what, you're pissing me off," Romano said, shaking his head. He turned his back on him again. "Just go home. I'll talk to you in the morning or something."

Netherlands laughed. "Let your boyfriend stay. It's like having a moody kid around. It's entertaining."

Spain grit his teeth, fists clenching.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Just as well then. He's got a shit track record with relationships."

"That's _it_ you fucking prick!" Spain yelled, launching out of his seat, smacking Netherlands square in the nose. Netherlands sprawled backwards from his stool, crashing into the floor with a yell of pain. Quickly out of his seat, Romano bent to help him up, wincing at the stream of blood oozing from Netherlands' nose. He waved away the two waiters on the scene to dissolve a potential brawl. "What the fuck, Spain?" he yelled, helping his friend to his feet. Spain was stood nearby, breathing heavily, fingers flexing at his sides, eager for battle.

"I told you, Roma, he's bad news. He doesn't know what he's saying," he said, prepared to strike again. "Don't listen to anything he says. It's all bullshit. He doesn't know a thing about me."

Romano didn't answer him, pressing his handkerchief to Netherlands' nose, taking his hand to guide it in place of his while he examined him. "I don't think it's broken. Just go home and get some ice on it, okay? That should ease the swelling."

Netherlands cast a dark eye over Spain as he was ushered outside. Spain watched them through the window, trying to read their lips, glowering when their gazes briefly turned his way. Absently he rubbed his knuckles, cracked them, shook the numbness out of his arm. His middle knuckle was bleeding.

Romano patted Netherlands arm and sent him on his way before heading back inside, picking up his suit jacket and tugging it on. The longer his silence dragged on, the less angry Spain felt, breathing slowing, tense muscles uncoiling snake-like, mist of rage evaporating to leave only Romano; angry little Romano.

His mouth bobbed, trying to find the words to defend his actions, silent when Romano rounded on him. "What the fuck's gotten into you, Spain?" he said sharply, straightening his cuffs. "You know, I don't even want to hear it tonight. I'll talk to you tomorrow when you've calmed down. I mean, what the _hell_, Spain. What the hell?"

"Roma, I'm sorry, I just-"

"I said I don't want to hear it, Spain," he said, checking for keys, phone, wallet, patting himself down. "I don't need you to be my white knight. I can pick my own friends."

"I want to protect you."

"I can do that myself, too. Talk to you later in the week."

Spain grabbed his arm as he turned. "You said tomorrow..."

"Yeah well," he tugged his arm free. "We'll see."

Spain blinked away the stinging sensation in his eyes as Romano walked away. At least he hadn't gone back on his vow to punch Netherlands if he ever saw him again. 

_Ninety-nine 20:41_

Romano was buzzing. Spain could tell this was his domain, his haven, charming men and women alike with his half-grin and vibrant chatter. It was a side of him he only ever really saw when he was flirting with pretty girls, but this was beyond that, all work, no play, sell, sell, sell. And they were falling for it, every last one of them sipping perpetually full glasses of champagne and signing cheques. Odd how proud it made him; it also turned him on a little. _He_ was the one taking him home tonight, _he_ was the one who was going to oh so willingly fall for his charms and wiles.

"Hello there. Spain, isn't it?"

Spain turned to face the young blond thing standing next to him, lips pink, cheeks rosy. She held her hand out, rocking on her heels. Her dress swirled around her legs like wind chimes. He recognised her instantly. "Yeah. You're Belgium," he stated, taking her hand to gently shake. It surprised him when she shook his hand firmly. Her fingers clasped behind her back when she let go.

"It's good to meet you. I missed you at Ita's birthday the other week," she said. "Romano mentioned you had a fight. I hope you've made up now. He really is impossible sometimes."

"He told you that?" Spain said, forcing a smile. "It was only a little fight. We're fine now. We're great. Perfect."

Belgium smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's good, I'm happy to hear that," she answered, looking over at Romano. Another sale had just been made by the looks of things, Romano handing over the stylish pen in his pocket to seal the deal. He caught Spain gaze, wiggling his finger suggestively. Belgium laughed. "Looks like Romano wants to talk to you. Go ahead, I'll mingle."

Spain didn't waste any time, hurrying over as the cheque was slid into a file of details. The happy customer kissed Romano on both cheeks and was on her way, perusing the other pieces for sale. "Hey, cariño," Spain said, dipping to kiss Romano's cheek. He'd been warned to behave, which meant no alcohol(for either of them), no kisses on the lips and definitely no groping. "You're doing really well, huh? How much have you made tonight?"

"About thirty-five thousand euros," he answered, shrugging like it was 20 cent to a millionaire. Spain whistled, knowing Romano was secretly very proud of himself. "There's still the auction to go, yet, so hopefully we can double that with the signature pieces. Granddad's gonna' be impressed."

"When's he coming?" Spain asked, trying to sound blase about it. Though he was pretty confident about winning the man over, he was still nervous. This was like meeting the parents for the first time and he only had one chance to make the best possible first impression. After that, things could only get better.

Romano pushed his sleeve up to check the time. "Any minute now."

On cue, the man in question flung open the double doors to the gallery, the girl in red from the day Spain had met Romano hurrying along beside him, wrapped in what could only be described as designer gear, Gucci and Prada and Paco Rabanne . Her hair was swept to the side, pretty pink flower pinning it in place. Romano scoffed. "Bastard always turns up when the hard work has been done already. Bet he's been shagging her. Come on, let's get this out the way."

He took a step, pausing when Spain didn't follow. "Spain, what is it?" he asked, jabbing him in the forehead. He pouted when his eyes remained ahead, vacant. "Oi, bastard, don't zone out on me. What's the fucking problem?"

Spain looked unhealthily white. "That...that's your granddad?" he said quietly, Romano straining to hear him. He held his hands out, baffled.

"Yes, that's him. Are you coming to meet him, or not? Don't tell me you've got cold fucking feet _now_. It's too late for that, so come on."

Spain felt an uncomfortable bubbling just beneath his ribcage, his heart beating like wings against his chest. "U-um...yeah. Okay," he said, letting Romano take his hand and drag him towards his granddad. The man smiled broadly upon sight of his grandson, holding his arms out. Scoffing, Romano slapped both arms down, ignoring the man's discontent whine. "You're a mean boy sometimes, Romano. Every time you don't hug me shaves three months off my life, you know."

"And every time you try to shaves three months off mine," Romano answered, eyes rolling. "Old man, this is Spain. Spain, this is my granddad. Rome."

Spain looked impossibly white now. Was the room spinning, or was that his head? Why was there suddenly two of everyone?

Rome was staring at him. Spain was staring back. Romano looked between them quickly, perplexed. "'the fuck, are you gonna speak to each other or what?" he growled. "The idea was for you to meet, not for you to...do whatever it is you're doing."

Spain held his hand out. "N-nice to," He coughed into his other hand, rearranging the position of his feet on the floor to steady himself as though the earth was shaking, "nice to meet you, Sir."

Rome did the same, hesitating before their fingertips brushed, then taking his hand to shake it firmly, once. "Hmm, you too," was all he said before he dropped his hand and turned to Romano. "How's everything ticking? You making me proud?"

Sidetracked by his evening's achievements, he paid little mind to the curt, short meeting and the unusual atmosphere, expression lighting up. "New record, old man, thirty five thousand. That's just an estimate too. I've not even added up the cash payments yet ," he said, smirking. "I'm gonna' be taking over this place in no time, you know that, don't you?"

"Ah, I do, lad, I do," Rome said, ruffling Romano's hair. Romano made a noise of annoyance, straightening it out again. "Why don't you get back to work while I get to know Spain here. You can do better than thirty-five thousand, I bet."

Romano nodded eagerly, kissing Spain's cheek and darting back into the crowed to lure his next customer. The moment he was busy, Rome took hold of Spain's arm, steering him out of the main hall and around the corner, out of sight and hearing range. "Okay, I'm sure the big boys and girls upstairs are finding this all really funny, but this is a bad joke," he said, pacing up and down the hallway, dragging a hand over his face. "You can't be here. You can't be Romano's...whatever you are. I refuse to believe it."

A trickle of sentience filtered into Spain's brain. "It's true. Romano and me are... He never told me your name. I didn't know."

"Well he never told me yours either," Rome answered, arm leaning outstretched on a white-washed wall. "I don't believe this. This is just too...I mean..."

Spain would have laughed at the similarities between Romano and his grandfather in that moment if the situation had been lighter. Instead he shrugged, the severity of it all filling him with dread head to toe.

"Look, kid," Rome said softly, brow wrinkled. The way he spoke was painfully familiar, soft and firm and powerful like he had the abilities to command vast armies. "I don't want to hurt my grandson. What happened between us was a long time ago, so there's no sense in drudging the past, is there?"

Spain wasn't so convinced of that. "I don't mean any disrespect, but we should tell him the truth. I hate lies," he said. His heart was thudding in his chest, brain struggling to process that this man was in front of him again while his body had long since dealt with it. His insides felt jellified, like he was nineteen years old again falling for the suave older man in his race-red Ferrari, buying him expensive gifts and luxuries and lavishing him with all of his love and attention. Spain brushed the cross around his neck, remember the way Rome used to play with it, tease him with it.

"It's not lying, _luce del sole_," Rome answered conspiratorially, stepping nearer. Spain's heart fluttered at the nickname. How long had it been since he'd heard that whispered to him?

"It...it's lying," Spain said seriously, pushing all of those memories to the back of his mind. He dropped his gaze to his feet, toes wiggling. His shoes weren't hurting anymore. "And lies hurt people when they come out. Besides, I don't have a very good memory. If I tell the truth, I don't have to remember anything. It was way before I even met Roma, so why wouldn't he be fine with it? I won't tell him any details."

Rome pinched the bridge of his nose. "My grandson is not the kind to take news that his grandfather once slept with his boyfriend very well, Spain, least of all when he knows it wasn't once," he said, gripping his shoulders. "You have to promise me you aren't going to tell him. It's only going to hurt him. He'll never trust either of us again and it's taken me years to earn his trust as it is. Please, Spain. I'm not thinking of you, I'm not thinking of me, I'm thinking of Romano. If you want him to finally admit what your relationship is, you have to do this. Don't ruin it for both of you."

Spain still looked unconvinced. Rome squeezed gently to grab his attention, smiling when Spain looked up at him. It was like time had rewound, like the past years had been a vision of the future and he was back in his teens, listening eagerly to Rome's every word, experiencing everything he had for him with enthusiasm and excitement. Somehow the pain of that relationship had numbed.

"Okay," he said, nodding. "Okay, I won't say anything. Are..are we just gonna' pretend like nothing happened?"

The thought hurt. Just a little.

Rome nodded resolutely. "That's exactly what we'll do," he said, patting his cheek. "I'm sorry, kid. I really didn't know."

Spain smiled weakly. "That doesn't really surprise me," he said, almost bitter, incapable of truly meaning it where his sweet Romano was concerned. Rome nodded, patted his back and left him there alone, looking over his shoulder and smiling broadly. When he'd gone, Spain released a long, loud sigh, flopping against the opposite wall. This was not good. This was not good at all.

To be continued~

Cifer10 – in answer to your question, they're human, but I don't like to use human names myself. It's just a personal thing; I still happily read fanfiction with human names in!


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry._

_Thank you reviewers :)_

**Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days**

**Part 3**

_Seventy-Nine 08:22_

_Sharp Dressed Man_ had been on repeat on Spain's iPod for three quarters of an hour. Each time Billy Gibbons sang 'every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man', Spain sang 'every _guy's_ crazy 'bout a sharp dressed Roma' and hiccuped miserably, trailing off into indistinct muttering until the line came round again. It was a song he heard playing in the background of HMV, Romano then the subsequent victim of a phonecall from Spain consisting solely of him singing the lyrics in the style of Raphael Gualazzi (incidentally, Spain had never heard of ZZ Top). Romano might have been more impressed with the tenuous link between himself and the imaginary protagonist in the song if Spain hadn't woken him in the middle of his siesta. Regardless, he'd listened until Spain had shut up. After that, he uttered a series of expletives and hung up.

Spain then went home and bought _Sharp Dressed Man _off itunes, excitedly adding it to his recently acquired iPod, purchased after Romano left his on his coffee table, rendering Spain deaf and mute for two hours while he played with the thing. He added the song to the playlist entitled 'Reminds me of Roma'.

Cocooned in the warmth of his bed, Spain celebrated the lingering scent of his lover, but mourned the lack of his physical being. This wasn't the first time he had gone some significant - significant being 24 hours plus - amount of time with no contact from his lover. He hoped that, like the other occasions, he just had to ride out the agony of separation until Romano forgave him for whatever it was he meant to be very, very sorry for.

This time, he knew. Though still considering himself entirely justified for socking Netherlands right in his smug, irritating face, Spain regretted his actions now. On the other hand, he felt it was his duty to re-educate Romano about his so-called friend via more devious methods. Of course, this hadn't been Spain's machination but France's, who was currently in the kitchen dribbling crepe mix into a hot pan, singing Amaury Vassili songs in his best operatic.

When Spain had finally resumed normal service and put the iPod away, along with binning two packetsworth of used pocket tissues, he swept into the kitchen with renewed vigour, determined and eager.

"Good to see you're back to your usual self," France noted, effortlessly flipping a sizzling crepe like the pan was an extension of his arm. He shuggled it and replaced it for a few seconds longer before depositing the results on top of the pile. "Crepes are ready, my dear. Help yourself."

Spain's stomach grumbled helplessly. It had been a whole two hours since he last consumed something. His belly was honestly under the impression that his throat had been cut.

"This looks great, France!" Spain announced, picking up the crepe tower and placing it in the centre of the table like a noble centrepiece. France drizzled a generous dollop of golden syrup over the top and stepped back to admire his handiwork, hands akimbo his hips like he was admiring the Eiffel Tower upon completion.

"Fantastic, if I do say so myself. Almost a shame to eat them, but needs must. Comfort food is comfort food!" France said, ushering Spain into his seat. He jabbed a lone crepe and lifted it onto his plate. "Can I get you anything else?"

"A hug~?" Spain said, grinning. France laughed, bending to acquiesce. He smelt faintly of the outdoors, that strange earthy musk that clings when the temperature drops. There was also a twig in his hair. Spain cocked his head at it, reaching to pluck it free. "Have you been having outdoor sex again?"

France had the decency to pretend he was embarrassed about being caught out. "What can I say, heat of the moment," he explained, shrugging as he sat. He slid his knife under two crepes, balancing them with his fork and lifting them. They landed in the centre of his plate and were quickly flavoured with lemon juice and a sprinkle of sugar. "She was stunning and...well, who am I to resist the magnetic tug of two beautiful people?"

Spain laughed. "Who was the other one?"

"Mean, my dear, very mean."

There was silence while they ate (as always), Spain thinking and appreciating, France just appreciating. "So," he said finally, knife and fork balanced along the edge of his plate. "When do you expect Romano will agree to start meeting your friends? This is assuming he forgives you for your terrible crimes against humanity."

Spain didn't look up from his fifth crepe, not an expert in reading between the lines of France's eloquent dialogue. "He's shy," he said around a mouthful, gulping coffee a second after. "I'll talk to him about it when we're friends again. He really wants to meet you!"

"Oh yes, I definitely get that impression," France chuckled, voice oozing sarcasm. "We've only invited him for a drink, oh, five times? I don't know what we could have possibly done to scare him off before we have even been formerly introduced."

Spain laughed weakly. "Ay, well..."

* * *

><p><em>Seventy-Seven 10:27<em>

Romano looked aghast at the sight of the photo Spain was waving under his nose. Snatching the thing out of Spain's fingers, he hurled it like a frisbee to an acceptable distance, out of his sight. "I definitely have absolutely no interest in ever meeting your friends ever at any point in my life ever, ever, ever after seeing that photo. Jesus Fucking Christ, what were you taking at university?" he ranted, sinking into Spain's favourite pew, a plush, blue armchair with swelling cushions ready to swallow passersby whole. He buried his face in the accompanying throw cushion, shaking his head. "Thanks, that's an image I will never be able to get out of my brain. I need mental cleansing."

Spain retrieved the photo, lovingly tucking it back into the album he had spread on the coffee table. There was still a trail of Romano's clothing leading from the sofa to the bedroom. One of his socks was sagging sadly over the edge of the table, contemplating its terribly unfair existence. It was only just past ten and neither of them had gathered the motivation to tidy up after themselves, plate of half eaten cake on the carpet; sediment bottomed glasses of wine at the side of the sofa; a split condom knotted and wrapped in tissue slowly vanishing down the back of the chair. "I don't know," Spain mused, counting on his fingers. "Back then it was probably meow meow and speed, but I think I did weed for the whole three years. I had a break for a bit though."

It was only after the words left his mouth that Spain had a moment of 'shit, I shouldn't have said that'. He tried to laugh it off , but Romano was good enough of a liar to know honesty when he heard it. But, much to his surprise, Romano didn't have anything to say on the subject. On the other hand, he was now staring with unsettling intensity at the television, the matter of meeting Spain's friends pushed aside. Spain swallowed, fingertips drumming an unsettled beat against his knee. Odd. Romano, notorious for his bad temper, furious like a hindered bull, was quieter than Spain had ever known him to be. Vocal, that was Romano, especially when it came to matters that he found particularly disagreeable.

"Um...Roma?" Spain said quietly, as if afraid he might disturb a sleeping child. Romano grunted. "Do uh... do you want some breakfast? I've got some of your favourite things in, so I can whip up anything you-"

He paused when Romano surged to his feet, smile painted false on his lips. "I've got some things to do for work tomorrow. I'll text you."

And that was it, Spain watching as Romano picked up his loafers, wiggled them on and left.

* * *

><p><em>One Hundred and Three 19:52<em>

"What the hell is the matter with you? You've been acting fucking weird all week."

Spain glanced over at him sharply, suddenly very aware he'd zoned out again for the third time that day. Working his lips into a cheerful smile, he played dumb, albeit not very well.

"Have I? I hadn't noticed," he answered, shrugging helplessly. He squeezed Romano's fingers, buried in the pocket of his duffle coat where he'd chased them. "You worry too much. You should stop that. You don't want to get stress lines up there, do you."

Romano growled when Spain poked his forehead, narrowly avoiding a lamppost in the process. It was the part of the day Spain loved most, that mischievous hour between day and night swathed ink-blue, not quite dark enough for the helpful glimmer of lights and candles.

"I'm gonna get stress lines from head to toe if you don't tell me what's going on," Romano demanded, his own fingers wiggling Spain's knuckles together. Spain winced, pouting and complaining of his meanness, then rewarding him with a kiss to his cheek and a happy-go-lucky grin.

"I told you, nothing is going on! I guess I'm just thinking super hard about my next project at work!" Spain exclaimed, sincerely appearing excited by the prospect, even if it was a cover for his actual concerns. It had been four days since Spain had re-encountered one of his past lovers, the love of his youth and Romano's grandfather. Since then he had pretended to have a cold so he could avoid a date with Romano and clear away anything he had of Rome's, be they photos, mementos or letters. Securely boxed and inconspicuously labeled, they were hidden away in the attic out of sight amongst junk and old soft toys.

"...fucking doing it again, you jerk!"

When Romano snatched his hand out of Spain's grasp, he jumped, smiling apologetically immediately after. "Sorry, tesoro, what did you say?"

"I _said_ mamma is making dinner for the family this Friday. Now granddad has met you, my parents want to meet you, which means _everyone _wants to meet you. If I don't bring you, mamma will literally bite my head and serve it as a starter. They'd eat me, too, just wait until you see the size of half of them, fucking carrions they are, eat, eat, eat, eat, I don't know how they dont have-."

Spain wondered if Rome would be there in all of his rugged, charming, seductive glory; pin-stripe suit and shoe-shined boots; sleek, folded curls and designer stubble, every inch a man. His aftershave was still the same, neither faint nor overpowering, twisting with the sensual slither of his natural scent. It was maddening at the time, an aphrodisiac sending Spain into a frenzy of heat and passion and unquenchable want. The thought of him made him shiver even now as a grown man with a career and a life and a lover...

"-and then mamma brought out this humongous almond cake and couldn't believe it when none of us could manage to eat it. I hope you're prepared for a feast. Anything you don't eat will be put in a box for us to take home. It will probably keep us fed for three weeks."

Spain laughed weakly at the pause, feeling he was meant to. He felt guilty for thinking about Rome again, the way he had been since the exhibition, especially when the real love of his life was walking beside him all huddled and cute inside his enormous, fleecy coat. That thought gave him solace from less desirable avenues, his hand reaching for Romano's again, tucking it away inside the pocket of his own coat.

Romano laughed, feeling around in it. "What have you got in here?" he asked, closing his fingers around a solid, box shaped object. Spain honestly couldn't remember, pulling the box free and settling it in his palm.

"Oh. I forgot I put that in there," he said softly, worried that the anger that surfaced the first time he had shown Romano the little dog tag would refuel itself and this time explode in his face. Offering Romano a crooked smile, he moved to put it back, stopped by Romano's hand on his, scooping the box into his. Flicking it open, he pinched the chain between finger and thumb, hooked it over his hand and swept it over his head, nestling it tidily against his collar.

Then he snapped the box shut, dropping it into Spain's pocket as he slide his hand in, inclining his head. "Come on, bastard, I'm starving," he said, as if nothing had happened. Spain's cheeks were pink. "What the hell's up with you, eating out was your idea. You're still paying, dammit."

Warm, carefree, his smile again like hot chocolate on cold nights. "Whatever you want, Romano."

* * *

><p><em>Eighty-Three 18:16<em>_  
><em>

Spain was bouncing between bewilderment, fascination and amusement at the sight of Romano and Italy fighting. He had the distinct impression the argument had culminated as a result of who Romano deemed 'the damned potato freak', who was evidently attempting to ignore the spat, continuing his dinner in silence like it wasn't even happening.

"Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time, Veneziano?" Romano growled, waving a floppy pasta shell his way. Spain had never heard Romano use that name before.

"It's none of your God damn business in the first place, so just stay the fuck out of it for once in your life."

Italy reeled. His weapon of choice was a meatball heavy fork. "I'm just saying, Romano, that you could be a little nicer to granddad! He's done a lot for you and he's put up with a lot of...a lot of stuff, so-"

"'Stuff'? What stuff is that?" Romano snapped, dropping the fork to his plate. It slid to the tablecloth, leaving a splodge of tomato sauce. "I'm sorry, did we share a different childhood? Was he actually around when you needed him? Did he give you supportive speeches and tell you how fucking great you are and how much he's fucking proud of you? Oh, oh wait, he did. I guess I forgot that you're his favourite for a second there."

Italy's lips crinkled in annoyance. "I'm not his favourite, Romano. He loves us both equally." It was said with the clarity of someone who spoke the same words quite frequently.

"Pah!"

"He does and if you gave him half a chance, then you might just recognise that!" Italy cried hopelessly. "Look, I know you're not even that annoyed about what granddad said,and that what you're really annoyed about is the fact the I invited Germany to dinner without clearing it with you first, so why don't you just say you're annoyed, let me apologise and accept my apology so we can get on with dinner without making poor Spain feel any more uncomfortable than he already does?"

Romano's jaw tightened. He looked at Spain, who gave him a sort of worried, doggish smile that made his body sink, tension swirling down the drain. Nothing more was said on the matter and after a good five minutes of nothing but the sound of chewing and the wince of cutlery, vague normality returned. Romano of course refused to help tidy up and glared at Spain's treacherous offer of assistance; glared harder when Germany rushed to help too, eventually succumbing to guilt and picking up the remaining used wine glass, considering his part in the process complete when he loaded it into the dishwasher alongside its stained brethren. With that, he retreated to the sanctuary of the garden, stomping up and down until Spain came out to discover what exactly was bothering him.

"Dont," Romano said when he opened his mouth, holding up a hand. He shook his head, burying his other hand in his hair. "It's nothing, so don't ask. I'm fine."

"You always say that," Spain murmured, fingers tickling over his shoulder, brushing the exposed skin of his collar, hoping to provide comfort. "You know you can talk to me, don't you? Rant, yell, I don't know. Just...talk to me."

Spain felt like a deflating balloon that had been on the brink of bursting when Romano pushed his hand aside. "I don't need to talk about anything."

"Well...were you mad about Germany being here? Is that what's wrong?"

Romano scoffed, wildly gesturing at the house. "I don't care if that bastard is there or not. I'm surprised when Italy doesn't invite him somewhere."

"Sooo," Spain continued, chewing his lip thoughtfully, imaginary pen scribbling possibilities from his mental list. "You're upset with your granddad?"

"Drop it, will you?"

"Upset about work?"

"Spain."

"So what is it?"

"I said 'drop it', dammit!" Romano yelled, Spain flinching. "I can handle it, okay? Fuck's sake!" Walking some distance away, he folded his arms, glaring at the night sky. Spain, slightly irritated by the angry dismissal, approached, cautious but determined.

"You always say you can handle it, but you can't always handle it at all," he said, hint of plea in his voice. "I just want to help, Roma. We're a couple now and I know you find that kind of uncomfortable, but talking to each other when we're upset about something is a perfectly normal, healthy thing to do in a relationship so you don't have to feel weird about it."

"I don't feel weird about anything, Spain, I just don't. Want. To. Talk. Got it?" Romano growled, casting a look to sink ships over his shoulder. Spain grit his teeth, determined to drum it into Romano's skull that he wasn't as alone as he seemed to think, reaching for his shoulder and tugging him around to face him, gripping his arms tightly. "Bastard, what the fu-"

"Just shut up for once and listen to what I'm saying, Romano," Spain interrupted, "You've got to stop shutting everyone out. You've got to stop shutting me out. I'm your boyfriend and I want to be there for you."

"Let go."

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

"Let go, Spain."

"No! God dammit, Romano!"

Romano jumped. It wasn't often Spain raised his voice to him, which was why it usually stunned him into silence - for a change.

Panting, Spain continued, still gripping him like he was scared he would fall through the Earth if not. "It's been _months_, Roma. Months. Don't you trust me at all, not even the tiniest, little bit?" he said, voice quiet, pleading. They both winced when the wind picked up, casting a hurricane of leaves about them. Spain's hands slid from his shoulders to cup his cheeks, head dipping to press warm lips to Romano's forehead, aching with feeling. "Don't you get it yet? I _love you_."

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for your lovely reviews~ Aha, I didn't really read through this part. I was a bit tired of looking at it to be honest, so I hope it's alright :) Love you all!

* * *

><p><strong><span>Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days<span>**

**Part 4**

* * *

><p><em>Eighty-Two: 20:36<em>

"So, Romano, tell me about yourself."

France was on a particular charm offensive the day Romano finally agreed to meet him. Upon his insistence, Spain had arranged two separate rendezvous, one with France, one with Prussia. Not wishing to overwhelm Romano (or have him experience the full impact of the 'Bad Friends Trio' - as they were dubbed during their riotous university days), Spain explained that it would be much nicer to get to know his best friends on a much more one-to-one basis. This loosely translated into 'Romano will never speak to me again if he experiences both of them at the same time', but Romano didn't need to know that.

"You look lovely," Spain had said, greeting Romano at the doors to _Bar 21_. His smile didn't carry his usual fervour and it did nothing to put Romano at ease, scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, hands buried in the pockets of a thigh-length, steel grey coat. Spain's eyes drifted to where his hands disappeared, wondering if there was a weapon in there just in case Romano took a dislike to his smooth-tongued friend... Shuddering, he held out his arm, telling his imagination to _please calm down_.

His arm was curtly rejected.

"Let's just get this over with," Romano growled, pulling down his scarf. He reminded Spain of a bank robber, leading his imagination down a twisting path teeming with sex in vaults and romanticized adventures of debauchery until Romano snapped his fingers in his face. He reminded his imagination to store that for later. "Don't you dare zone out on me. I'm not staying long, remember, I've got things to do for tomorrow. "

Spain nodded enthusiastically, cheeks pink as he opened the door. "You really do look lovely," he continued when Romano breezed past, the scent of his aftershave smoothing Spain's lips into a dozy smile. Long fingers brushed the back of his coat just beneath his shoulders, admiring the material, soft and warm. "Is this new? It suits you."

Romano didn't reply, but his cheeks were pink. Gracefully sliding the coat from his shoulders, he handed it to a gentleman standing with a false, placid smile on his face and then turned to Spain, untangling his scarf. "Where is he then?" he demanded, standing on his toes to see over an ocean of heads. They were all yuppies, picture like a black and white portrait of the 1960s, jet-black jackets and ice-white shirts and then a tie painted rainbow to remind everyone they still had a 'fun side' behind the business jargon and serpent smiles.

Imitating Romano's stance, Spain smiled and waved, pointing. Warmth spread up his arm when he took Romano's hand, laughing at his displeased grunt when he entwined their fingers and weaved between zebra stripe business people to reach the bar where France was elegantly poised, Blackberry in one hand, pinot grigio in the other.

"I'm an art director," Romano answered, pulling a card from his pocket. He slid it across the table like he was offering a Poker chip to bet with, Spain busy ordering Romano's next drink and trying to explain to the barman precisely what measurements were required. "You probably know the place, it's pretty famous."

France picked the card up, holding it between finger and thumb like a camera. "Hmm, I know it. Spain, darling, you didn't tell me you're dating a Vargas."

Spain looked over, popping the olive on the side of his glass into his mouth. "Oh, didn't I? Should I have?" he asked, smiling, olive like a growth in his cheek. France laughed, brushing a lock of his fringe aside and turning back to Romano.

"Yes, you should have. There are a few pieces in this gallery I've had my eye on for a long time," he said, slipping the card into his wallet. "Don't suppose you're willing to cut me a deal as your boyfriend's best friend? I can send a lot of custom your way."

Romano's nose wrinkled. "Maybe," he answered, playing with a cocktail umbrella one-handed. Spain plucked it out of his fingers, dropping it into his drink with a pleased hum then chewing and swallowing the olive. "I'll have to see what my granddad has to say about it. He's pretty picky about who we have on the books."

"But Roma, I thought you were in charge of all that stuff. You said you don't need your granddad's help with anything and that he's an interfering old man with too much time on his hands so you-"

"_Thank you_, Spain_,_" Romano interrupted, glaring. Embarrassed to have been caught out, he forced a smile, shrugging nonchalantly. "Sorry, we're just quite stringent with our clients. I wouldn't want you to be disappointed."

France shrugged in return, nonplussed. "So," he said, swiftly changing the topic of conversation to something much more exciting. "What made you finally say yes to being official with my dearest friend?"

Spain was about to open his mouth to tell France to kindly not mention that when they were interrupted. "Aw, man, you guys are already here! Where's my drink, bastards? Wait, am I late? Oh, is this him?"

All three of them turned to see the third member of the musketeers standing with his arms folded, no effort made in his attire; scruffy jeans and a black t-shirt that made him look ready to go on stage as part of Metallica. "Prussia, what the hell are you doing here?" Spain said, exasperated. "I told you _next_week you were meeting Romano."

"Eh, you did?" Prussia said, raking fingers through his hair. He grinned secretively. "Guess I got my dates mixed up. Well, I'm here now anyway, so I might as well stay for the party! Hi, I'm Prussia." He held his hand out, Romano gingerly taking it to shake, then wiping his hand on his trousers, nose wrinkled. "So, who's getting me a drink then?"

France obliged, ordering a _small_beer, much to Prussia's chagrin. "Half? What do I look like, a teenage boy?" he complained, squinting at the glass.

"We're not here to get wasted, we're here to get to know Romano," France pointed out, nodding at him. Spain nodded in return, curling an arm around Romano's. He was swiftly shaken off. "And Romano was just about to tell me all about what made him fall so hopelessly in love with our wonderful, wonderful Spain."

* * *

><p><em>One-Hundred and Seven: 18:10<em>

Spain felt sick. With every station zipping by, the twisting, nauseous crawling in his belly grew like insects swallowing him from the inside out. He hadn't realised until he stepped out of the house that the smooth, tight jeans lovingly hugging his backside and the Ferrari red shirt clinging to impossible contours weren't entirely for Romano's benefit. His aftershave was; Romano's favourite scent on him - Bulgari Aqua, only second to his natural musk, but everything else was a fifty-fifty split between his boyfriend and his ex-lover and that glaringly obvious fact made Spain feel even worse.

When he reached the right station, his fingers hovered over the 'send' button on his decade old contraption, message reading 'I missed my station. I think I'm lost. Don't worry, I'll find it eventually x x x'. He didn't send it, sucking in a breath and nipping between the doors as they were closing, the station warden giving him a filthy look for his daring. Scrolling to the directions Romano had sent him, he ascended the stairs from the underground and turned left to catch the bus leading out of the city.

Romano's parent's house was postcard perfect. Smothered in ivy and a pretty petticoat of flowers, it was - as Romano had explained - a building that had been in his family for generations, an old converted watermill, the wheel still creaking and turning like the centuries had rewound. Spain could almost smell the warming scent of bread baking, see floury footprints leading to and from the achingly old, wooden outhouse. A flood of nostalgia caught him off guard, the yearning to see his family again intensifying.

Hearing the excited rise and fall of voices, Spain poked his head around the side of the place, spotting a gathering of people through the open gate. Pasting a smile across his face, he headed along the path, praying Rome hadn't yet arrived, eyes taking in the large trestle table of food, the stone gazebo, the children chasing one another around the swings.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, he was swiftly surrounded by a gaggle of females, all eager to find out more about Romano's _boyfriend_, said in whispers, followed by giggles. Eased by their company, they were eager to be charmed by him, though it wasn't his intention when he complimented and flattered and smiled that knee-quivering smile. "So, where is Romano?" he asked eventually in a millisecond pause, peering around eagerly. When his eyes settled on a tall gentleman with dark curls and a broad back, his breath hitched, heart thud-thudding in his chest. But then he turned and Spain saw the resemblance to Romano, realising with a fond smile that this must be his father.

"Mister Vargas!" he cried, waving enthusiastically. The women parted, gossiping and pointing upon his retreat. The man scanned faces immediately in his view before finding Spain, his smile liquid smooth and easy.

"You must be Spain," he said, holding out his hand as Spain drew close enough. Spain took it, shaking loosely. "It's good to finally meet you. My name is Napoli."

Spain nodded. Weathered but mature in his looks, he was very obviously Romano's father, sharing the same shade of deep auburn hair, the same hazel eyes, the same lop-sided smile Spain had tumbled in love with. "I've heard a lot about you, sir. I can see where Roma gets his looks from!" he cried, utterly, painfully sincere.

Napoli laughed. It sounded so much like Romano's that he warmed to him instantly, the familiarity of him soothing and inviting. "Romano told me how charming you are; I see he wasn't lying about that much. That must be how you managed to break down the 'walls' as everyone calls them," he said, filling a glass with wine and handing it to Spain. "I have to say, I'm impressed. I haven't seen Romano this happy since...ah,well-" He trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

There was very little Romano had revealed about his past, even when questioned about it. He didn't keep photos around and didn't talk about anyone Spain didn't already know. Spain always felt like there was this enormous part of Romano's life that he would never be privy to and he had to admit, that hurt.

"Romano is just inside helping his mother - or trying to, she doesn't like interference from anyone when she's in the kitchen so best stay away from there for the time being, eh?"

One-by-one (every one of the older relatives exclaiming 'isn't he handsome!' or 'Romano's done well' or 'isn't he a lovely man') Napoli introduced Spain to every member of the family from aunts and uncles to nieces and nephews, half-brothers and half-sisters to adopted children and step-parents. Spain only felt such a sense of belonging with his own family, quick to feel welcomed and wanted. By the time Romano appeared, Spain had already become honourary babysitter for the children, Romano's youngest cousin Isernia comfortably sprawled across his lap, face smothered with chocolate. She was excitedly telling Spain all about her collection of dolls, listing them by name, Spain nodding along with interest.

"Isernia," Romano said, voice firm but gentle. Spain's heart fluttered at the sight of him, outfit more relaxed than usual, simple jeans and a t-shirt, flip-flops on his feet and sunglasses hooked over his collar. Evidence of a cooking mishap was splattered over jeans. "Get down from there and wash your hands and face before we sit down for dinner."

Isernia smiled dozily, bouncing on Spain's knees. "I'm comf'ible!" she announced, swinging her legs. Romano was about to insist when she cried, "Are you an' Uncle Spain doing naughty 'fings together?"

Romano's cheeks exploded with colour. Bending, he lifted Isernia under the arms and set her down on the ground, giving her a gentle push towards the house. "Wash up, _now_," he ordered, voice no-nonsense hard. "Otherwise, no dessert, understand? Go on."

Pouting, she headed inside. When she paused to wave and offer Spain a cheeky grin, Romano shooed her indoors. He shrieked when he was then dragged onto Spain's lap in her place, arms curling around his middle. "Your family is so, damn, cute," Spain whispered in his ear, then pressing quick kisses up and down his neck. The matter of Romano's grandfather had been forgotten, the delicious treat in his lap more than enough to distract. "But none of them are as cute as you are. I missed you."

"Get _off_me, damn bastard," Romano complained, wriggling rather futilely. "Everyone can see!"

"Everyone can see your boyfriend _cuddling_you? How terrible!" Spain gasped. "Someone alert the police! Avert your eyes, children! I'm cuddling my boyfriend! I can't help myself! Stay ba- ack-!"

Spain spluttered when Romano elbowed him in the ribs, quickly clambering to his feet, flustered. Not unused to it, Spain laughed, tugging him down by the hand to press a breathless kiss to his lips. "You were late," Romano mumbled against them. "I told you not to be late. You're _always_late."

Spain resisted the urge to remind Romano that he was usually late because of him, nudging his nose with his own. "Sorry, carino, I missed the train before. I'm here now though!" he said, Romano rolling his eyes and standing up right. "I better introduce you to mamma before we sit down for dinner otherwise she'll end up in a mood. She already thinks I'm trying to hide you from her like you're some big damn secret."

"Oh, am I your dirty little secret?" Spain sang, grinning. Romano flicked his forehead.

"You're neither dirty, little, nor a secret," he answered, folding his arms haughtily. Spain's expression swiftly morphed, trickling filth and naughty promises.

"Would you like me to be _dirty_?"

Romano's cheeks exploded with heat all over again. It was like Spain hadn't said anything crude when he was smacked on the cheek and ordered not to be such a 'damn pervert', then dragged unceremoniously towards the kitchen. It turned out Romano's mother, Firenze, _Flo_, wasn't the dragon she had been made out to be, but just a sweet, generous, loving lady with a great passion for throwing parties. Spain she instantly liked, kissing both cheeks, scrutinising him, firing questions at him one after another. Spain answered easily and simply, features soft, expression sincere. Just like everyone else, she quickly fell in love.

Obviously satisfied when she charged Spain with the very important dish of lasagne,he took great care bringing it to the trestle table set up in the garden, flushing happily at Romano's family's cheers. It wasn't until he set it down in the centre that he noticed Rome sitting in front of him, the dish nearly slipping from his fingers, thudding to the table. Glasses shivered, cutlery tinkled and the family let out a sigh of relief for the safety of the shining glory of dinner, all laughing softly afterwards for Spain's clumsiness.

"Almost," Rome said, smiling nonchalantly at Spain as if there was no history there, no young love, no pain. Spain swallowed, hands trembling, palms sticky. The back of his neck prickled with heat like teasing fingers.

"Bastard, watch what you're doing!" Romano cried behind him, bustling him aside to place a bowl of salad beside the dish. So laden with food, the table was starting to sink into the grass. "Just sit down, I'll do everything else."

Spain sat in the nearest free seat, concentrating on rearranging his cutlery, crockery, wine glass, napkin, cutlery again, until Romano flopped next to him looking for all the world like he had been labouring like an Egyptian slave. He poured himself a large glass of white wine, drank half and refilled it, then sank back with a sigh, smiling at his family.

Spain tried not to look in Rome's direction. It was difficult not to when he held the attention of the whole family, telling stories, animated and charming and exactly how Spain remembered him, from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners to the way he tapped his nose before he laughed merrily. He didn't hear half of what Romano was saying to him and poked and prodded his food, slicing it into pieces, pushing it from one side of his plate to the other. He drank plenty, however, glass after glass after glass until he had to rub his eyes to focus, swaying and numb.

"You've had far too much to drink," he heard Romano say irritably. Spain had no idea what time it was when he noticed it was dark and the table was clear. "Why the fuck did you get so drunk? You're meant to be making a good impression on my family, you know?"

He didn't sound particularly angry, but Spain was several miles past inebriated, leaning on Romano when he stood so he didn't fall face-first to the floor. A strong arm curled around his middle; Spain giggled and hiccuped, nuzzling Romano's cheek. "Papa says you can sleep in the spare room with me," he continued, flicking lights off on the way upstairs. Spain nodded dozily, only caring that a warm bed was waiting for him.

* * *

><p><em>One Hundred and Eight: 00:08<em>

Spain had been staring at an unfamiliar ceiling for half an hour, resisting the urge to crawl to the bathroom and curl up on the cold floor. Ten minutes later, he finally dragged himself from the pleasing warmth of his lover, bypassing the bathroom in favour of trudging downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water to quench his desert mouth.

There sat Rome at the table, iced glass of brandy in his hand, newspaper spread open in front of him. For a moment Spain wondered if he had jumped backwards in time, lonely and cold in bed while Rome worked downstairs into the early hours of the morning, crawling back into bed by four to cuddle and drift to sleep before morning sex and work all over again. Rome was every inch his usual self, smiling in greeting, waving the bottle of brandy in his direction. "Night cap?" he said softly, Spain looking between him and the bottle.

He would have been a liar to deny he didn't consider it, even for a moment. Instead he grabbed a glass off the side and filled it with water. "I don't think that's a very good idea," he answered simply, sipping. Rome lowered the bottle to the table again.

"No, you're probably right," he replied, smile faltering. "Sorry. I suppose I just wanted to catch up..."

"Why?" Spain asked, lifting his glass. "You didn't contact me once all this time. I understand why, really I do, but don't try to make me believe you're genuinely interested in catching up with me when we've met again purely by chance. You already made your opinions clear the other day."

Rome sighed heavily, smile falling altogether. "I'm sorry, I panicked," he said quietly, pushing his glass between his hands. He certainly looked sorry, eyes following the path of his glass. It was familiar to Spain, a gesture indicating a plea for forgiveness. "You were the last person I expected Romano to turn up with that night. Spain, he's...he's not as strong as he pretends to be sometimes. I was scared. I didn't want him to be hurt again, not so soon. Not by something like this."

Spain pulled out a chair, lowering himself to it. The wood felt hot against his bare thighs. "'Again'?" he said, stern, keeping his feet beneath his seat and his hands in his lap. Rome leaned forward on his elbows, curiosity in his eyes, swinging like the tick-tock of an old pendulum.

"He hasn't told you?" he said breathily, cocking his head.

Spain pursed his lips. "Told me what?"

Rome sat back, waving. Almost awkward, he shifted in his seat, crossing his legs at the ankle. "Look kid, I'd love to tell you, but it's not up to me. Romano will tell you in his own time, I'm sure."

"Tell me."

"If he doesn't trust you enough yet then-" Rome barely blinked when Spain's fist slammed against the table. He picked up his glass, ice clacking as he tipped it to his lips, unaffected by Spain's roll of anger.

"Don't you fucking dare," he growled, eyes narrowing. He jabbed a finger in the air. "Don't you dare pass comment on our relationship. Romano _does_trust me. I know he does. He's just shy. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings because it makes him feel vulnerable, but I know he definitely trusts me."

Rome forced a smile. "Then you've achieved something most of us never have," he said, regret in his voice. The old clock in the hallway chimed half past twelve. "If he really does trust you, then you have nothing to worry about. Romano will talk to you eventually, no doubt."

Spain huffed, getting to his feet. "Yes," he said, sweeping towards the door, glass in hand. Rome's head lolled to his shoulder in order to watch him leave. "He does trust me and he _will_tell me when he's ready."

* * *

><p><em>Eighty Four: 22:18<em>

Spain trusted Romano. Honestly, he had a few reasons not to, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt regardless and he smiled and nodded when he said he was taking Belgium to dinner. He didn't remark on the fact that Romano was paying for everything. He didn't complain about the fact Romano had bought her a pair of very pretty diamond earrings. He didn't even frown when Romano said he might stay at hers for the night if they were out late. No; instead he smiled and nodded, despite the fact Romano had never bought him dinner, had never bought him a gift, and was potentially staying in the home of a woman he was maybe a tiny, weeny bit jealous of.

Petite, curvy and blonde Spain was not. Belgium was a pretty young gem he couldn't possibly compete with. Plus, Romano was very, very protective of her, not to mention her brother. Netherlands attendance was a fact Romano had neglected to mention until he was walking out the door, Spain never having the opportunity to react accordingly to the information until a good thirty seconds later, by which time it was too late to protest.

Perhaps he wouldn't have been so bothered if the day before he hadn't declared his undying love for Romano. Then again, perhaps he was expecting too much when he assumed Romano would want to spend the night in with him drinking wine and watching silly, romantic films. He even had dinner planned out; Romano's favourite pizza (spinach, ricotta and a sprinkle of basil) and an orange and lemon panacotta for dessert, complimented by a good red wine, coffees and maybe even a bit of fooling around on the sofa.

Spain stared longingly out of the living room window, watching cars zipping by. Neither of his texts had been replied to. He wondered what they were getting up to, what they were talking about. Were they talking about him? Was Netherlands telling Romano all kinds of lies about him?

Wringing his hands, he stepped back from the window to pace up and down. Maybe Netherlands was listing every last youthful act of debauchery that he knew about. He'd already made the mistake of admitting he used to partake of the occasional drug (and he still wasn't sure what Romano's opinion was on the matter, considering it hadn't been mentioned since), so Romano could have been asking all manner of questions.

Dialing him, he quickly hung up again when he heard a key in the front door, Romano stepping in a moment later. Spain winced when the door was slammed, bracing himself for an argument. His heart thudded almost as loudly as the approaching footsteps, mind frantically wading through a muddy pile of excuses and reasons and explanations for any of his past behaviour. _It was France's fault. It was Prussia's idea. I was really drunk. They told me it was Talcum Powder. I don't even remember doing that. That's a lie. I got knocked out by a rugby ball. I was only 18. I was only 19..._

"Spain?" Romano called sharply, throwing his coat across the arm of the sofa the moment he stepped through the door. "Get me a coffee."

Spain nodded quickly, eager to appease Romano as much as possible prior to the shouting he could sense beyond the threshold. He made the most perfect cup of coffee he was capable of making, fluffing up the cushions on the sofa after putting the cup down on the table beside it, three biscotti as welcome companions. "Do you want anything else?" He didn't dare ask how dinner went. "Hot water bottle? Painkillers? Your book? Your laptop?"

"What? No," Romano replied, sinking into a seat with a weary sigh. "Fucking sit down will you, you're giving me a headache."

With the obedience of a dog, he sat, eyes trailing over his lover, taking in his posture, his expression, the sound of his breathing. When his eyes fell to his hands he noticed the grazes across Romano's knuckles, quickly plucking his hand free of his lap to inspect. "What's this? What happened?" he questioned, thumb brushing the bony bumps. Romano hissed, snatching the limb back.

"Nothing fucking happened, bastard, leave me alone," he said half-heartedly, fidgeting. He leaned forward to pick up his cup of coffee, sipping noisily.

"Romano, you're bleeding," Spain stated, getting to his feet. "Let me get the first aid box."

Romano allowed him that much, tiredly rubbing his eyes. When his hand was pulled to Spain's leg he sighed again, fingers twitching. "It's honestly nothing I've not had before, idiot," he said quietly, watching Spain smoothing anti-septic cream over each graze in turn. Next came the gauze and a fresh bandage, all done in silence but for the ticking clock in the hallway. After inspecting his work, Romano dropped his hand to his lap. "Thanks."

Spain beamed, wondering if Romano was maybe a little less mad at him than he had been. Taking a small risk, he scooted nearer so their thighs were pressed tighter, smiling nervously. When Romano entwined their fingers, he jumped. "What, bastard, I'm not gonna' fucking hit you, Jesus," Romano said stroppily. Spain could have sworn he detected the tiniest sliver of hurt in his voice, squeezing his hand reassuringly and apologetically.

Patiently waiting for him to explain how he had come to injure himself, he swung his knee back and forth, humming hoping to be soothing. Romano's fingers were cold, so he nestled them between his palms, blowing warm air between them from time to time.

"I punched Netherlands."

Spain turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Why?"

Romano huffed, pulling his hand free so he could fold his arms. He looked like a teenager caught doing something he shouldn't. "He was being a dick. He was asking for it," Romano answered simply, unfolding his arms to pick up his coffee again. "I don't wanna' discuss it anymore, I'm too tired."

"O...kay?" Spain replied, half wanting to push for more information, half relieved not to be the target of Romano's anger. He didn't look over when Romano flicked the television on, happy to watch his lover instead. His hair was starting to curl the way it always did at the end of the day. Reaching up to play with it was a gamble worth making when Romano sank lower in his seat, head rolling to Spain's shoulder. "So," Spain began, arm awkwardly twisted to twirl copper locks around his fingers. "Did Belgium like the earrings you got for her?"

Romano made a noise of affirmation. "Put them on straight away. She looked stunning, as usual."

Spain's smile was a little crooked. "Yeah? She's very attractive."

"She is."

"Roma?"

"Hmmm?"

"I wanted to ask you something about Belgium..." Spain could feel his slow,warm breath against his neck, tickly fingers exploring the dip of his collarbone. With a pleased shiver he sat upright again, surprised when eager lips covered his, quick fingers tugging his shirt up and over his head.

"What do you want to ask?" Romano whispered, sprinkling wet kisses up his neck to his ear.

"I...nnn, yeah, right there," Spain sighed, sinking. "I just...I'm curious because you and her are...o-oh, that's good..."

Winding both arms around Romano, he dragged him flush against his side, all thoughts of Belgium floating dazedly to the stars. All that mattered was Romano; Romano kissing him, undressing him, urging him onto his back, nipping, tickling, loving, enjoying him like his favourite flavour of gelato. Charming seducer he was, clever nails and lips and tongue, tainting, claiming, writing love all over his skin.

Being made love to by him was knowing him. Romano was a master of hiding, the king of running from his feelings and everyone else's, but here and now, buried in Spain's body, there was no hiding and there was no running. Spain could feel every inch of him tremble. The fingers curling in his hair, gripping his thighs, panting half-kisses and shivering smiles; there were his feelings as plain as day.

Thunder and lightening, hot and sudden and wild. Caught in the typhoon that was Romano, Spain was always spinning.

_23:47_

"What did you want to ask me about Belgium?" Romano said tiredly, comfortably squished between Spain's body and the back of the sofa. His injured hand was pressed between them, Spain's cradling it. Mostly asleep, he cracked open an eye and smiled.

"Doesn't matter," he answered, cuddling closer. Romano grumbled. "I already know the answer."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you as usual to reviewers :) I didn't edit this because I've not really got time to this week, so forgive me for any horrible, glaring errors**. **This part is a little rough around the edges, maybe. It's difficult juggling life haha. Sorry guys..**

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><p><strong>Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days: Part 5<strong>

* * *

><p><em>One Hundred and Twenty Five: 07:15<em>

"I'm 'doh poooorly," Spain was whining, reclined on the sofa with a blanket around his shoulders and a mountain of screwed up tissues on his chest. In his defence, his man-flu had created a vacuum in his head that made his eyes feel as though they were being sucked into his brain and his nose about to explode with a variety of unsavoury fluids that Romano did not want all over his brand new carpet, sofa or in fact any available surface that wouldn't wipe clean.

"Look, you bastard," he snapped, grimacing and scooping used tissues into the wicker bin. Promptly he produced a pocket-sized bottle of anti-bacterial hand lotion, swiping it over his fingers. "I already said you can stay here for the night so long as you don't fucking complain constantly. And don't think I believe that bullshit about not being able to drive home, you lazy fucker. You're not sharing my bed either, you diseased little troglodyte."

Spain made a noise like a dying cat. "Why are you being 'doh mean when I'm 'doh weeeeeak," he complained, arm strewn across his eyes in a way reminiscent of an overacting Thespian. "I can't defend mydelf~"

Romano dropped the television remote on his chest, huffing. Spain whimpered. "I'm going to work in a minute. There're leftovers in the fridge if you can _possibly _manage to drag yourself to your lazy-arse feet to get to it. I don't want you stinking up my living room with your starved-to-death corpse, understand? And I'm making you a honey and lemon drink, so you better fucking drink the lot."

He bent to wipe a dribble of snot from Spain's nostril, looking thoroughly disgusted with the resulting soggy tissue. "Ki'th. Kiiii'th," he wailed, arms waving. Romano was on his feet very quickly, backing away.

"I don't fucking think so. I don't want your germs," he said, giving him a filthy look. He stomped out of the room, disgruntled by the inconvenience, Spain's arms flopping to his sides again, disappointed. He really did feel terrible, but perhaps he was putting on an act just a teeny, tiny bit. It was nice being taken care of, even if by the grumpiest nurse he had ever encountered. He was still the cutest. Besides, he would get to see Romano in the evening without having to beg for a change, even if he wouldn't allow him within three feet of him.

_And_Romano was cute when he was tired after work.

Fifteen minutes later, post Bubonic Plague coughing fit, Romano reappeared with some warm porridge decorated with a squeeze of honey and a healthy dollop of Greek yoghurt. "Here, eat this and drink these," he ordered, bowl balanced on a tray alongside a glass of thick orange juice, two flu tablets and a hot drink. "I'm gonna' bring you a glass of dissolved vitamin C tablets later in the day and I'll pick up some zinc tablets when I pop into work."

Spain smiled dozily. "'dank you, Roma," he mumbled, sniffling, sneezing, smiling again. "I really apprethiate it."

Romano waved dismissively. "I'm not doing you a favour or anything here," he muttered, producing a thermometer from his pocket and holding it in front of Spain's lips. "Open," he said, leaving no room for argument. Spain obediently acquiesced, saying 'aaah' for good measure until half of it was shoved in his mouth. Swiftly he closed his lips around it, pouting. Romano counted down the seconds on his watch and then slid it free, holding it up to the light, nose wrinkling. "Not terrible, but not great. You don't feel hot though."

"Maybe you 'thould check again jutht in cathe," Spain said, grinning. Romano smacked the thermometer off his forehead, then got to his feet, disappearing again and then returning with his laptop bag. It wasn't until he flopped into his favourite chair and opened up his computer that Spain realised Romano wasn't going to work.

"Shut up," he snapped when Spain opened his mouth to thank him. "Just shut up."

_22:53_

Spain was trying his best to crawl under the sheets with ninja-stealth. Romano was curled on his side, warm and soft and lovely as ever, cheeks pink because the heating had been on high all day. Carefully Spain spread out, muffling a sneeze with the Olbas oil soaked handkerchief Romano had prized him with. When he was finally comfortable, as close to Romano as he could get without physically touching him, he closed his eyes, content.

His smile was wide when Romano huffed, turned over and curled around him.

* * *

><p><em>Two Hundred and Twenty: 22:01<em>

"Move in with me."

Romano nearly choked on his slug of Peroni, lowering the bottle to cough and splutter. "W-what?" he stammered, looking at Spain like he'd grown another head. Spain looked faraway, like he was enjoying an outer-body-experience in which everything was actually happening in real life. Looking between the bottle in Spain's hand and that ridiculous expression on his face, he said uncertainly, "How much have you had to drink?"

Spain laughed softly, lowering the bottle to the floor and crawling over, curling his arms around Romano's neck. "Not so much that I don't know what I'm saying," he answered, nuzzling his cheek. The fire had made Romano's skin hot and pink. Particularly pliant, Romano brushed fingertips over his waist before squeezing reverently, pressing kisses to Spain's neck. "So what do you say? Will you move in with me?"

Romano snorted. "Hell no."

Spain's smile fell. "Aw, why not?"

Romano grinned, flopping to lie across Spain's tatty, wine-stained rug. He crossed his legs at the knee, foot bouncing. "You think I'm going to move out of my eighteenth century townhouse to move in here?" he simpered, shaking his head. His lips glistened. "Bastard, you're moving in with me, not the other way round."

It took a moment for Spain to process the information. "Are you high again?"

Romano's cheeks exploded with colour. "No I am not, that was _one time_!"

Spain bellowed with laughter. A moment after he was squeezing Romano hard enough to break bones. When he squealed in Romano's ear, he was thumped in the ribs and warned that, if he didn't cease acting like a thirteen year old girl, the offer would be swiftly retracted.

* * *

><p><em>One Hundred and Ten: 12:42<em>

France looked unimpressed. Spain hadn't exactly expected the news to make him jump for joy, but he hadn't mentioned it believing France would react like this. "What the hell _right_does he have?" he was yelling, throwing his arms in the air with every punctuated word. The coffee cups on the table were clattering. "Who the hell does he think he is? I've got a good mind to go and see him myself and tell him precisely what I think of him, that philandering Lothario!"

Spain smiled weakly and shrugged. "It's not worth it. It's all done now and...he's right. Romano isn't going to be grateful that I was honest with him, least of all now I've waited this long to mention it. He'll be mad. Really, really mad."

France scoffed. "Maybe he will, but when he calms down he's going to realise that you've done nothing wrong and that it was a long time ago. A _very _long time ago. And he'll understand that that cradle-snatching old bastard broke your heart and left your friends to pick up the pieces. I'm not going to let him hurt you again, Spain, do you hear me? I absolutely will not."

It was heart-warming really, the way France would always act the white knight on Spain's behalf. He always had, too, from the day they met when France used to pretend he couldn't stand the sight of him, to the first time Spain fell in love (and out of it again), to now, happily involved with the love of his life.

Flopping beside him on his L-shaped sofa (chosen by France, in fact; incidentally, Romano hated that sofa with a fiery passion), France gathered Spain into a tight hug, squeezing him dotingly. "I will not let this ruin your relationship with Romano. I am going to make it my mission to ensure that the two of you end up together forever."

Spain laughed softly, nuzzling. "You're a good friend, France, but you really don't need to worry," he said, sitting back. "I can handle Rome. There is nothing more important to me in this world than Romano's happiness, so I'm not going to let anything happen that is going to jeopardise that. I love him far too much to see him suffer for any reas-"

He jumped when his phone vibrated in his pocket, tugging it free to open the message. "Ha...haha...talk of the devil, huh?" He showed the message to France, expression hopeless and a little worried. France read it over three times before his own expression darkened. It was lucky Spain had quick enough reactions to jerk the phone out of his reach when he lunged for it. "It's fine! I'll just ignore it, it's fine!"

"Too right you will!" France yelled, clambering over him, knee in Spain's stomach, hand in his face. "Give me that phone! Give it! I'll tell that old bastard exactly what I think of him!"

Spain yelped when France's knee slipped to his crotch. France immediately slid off him, apologising for taking that perhaps a little further than necessary and perching woefully on the edge of the cushion. "If you go and see him, I'm going to disown you, just so you know," he said, tapping his foot irately. "Even if you so much as _think_ about going to see him in fact, and I'll know, Spain. You know I'll know. I _always know_!"

"Okay, okay!" Spain cried, holding his hands up in surrender, hand covering himself, just in case. "I wasn't intending to meet him, but _okay_. France, you're scary sometimes..."

France shoved a lock of hair out of his eyes. Cheeks that were flushed with exertion looked particularly vibrant against skin as milky as his. "It's only because I care about you," he answered, serious and sombre. Brow knitted, he wagged his finger in Spain's direction. "Don't forget, I was the one that held you in my arms while you cried yourself to sleep for two weeks because of what he did. It was me that dealt with all of that pain and hurt."

"I know, France and I appreciate it-"

"It's not about whether or not you appreciate it. I'd do it a thousand more times, you know I would. It's _you_I'm thinking of here, not me," France said. "Rome stomped all over your heart like he's done to hundreds of others. I know it still hurts you even now. What I'm saying is, I'm going to do everything I can to ensure he never gets the opportunity to hurt you in any way."

Spain sighed softly, smiling. "You're a good friend, France."

France huffed, folding his arms. "I know I am." A smile trickled into his lips. "I'm glad you've noticed."

* * *

><p><em>One Hundred and Thirty-Five: 19:46<em>

Spain was certain he had never spent so much money in one weekend in his life, except for the time he had been drunk and had thought it was an amazing idea to play football in France's back garden, using the garage and the house itself as goal posts and the narrow alleyway between as the goal. The total amount for damages including the battered lawnmower that had ended up in the middle of the kitchen (to this day none of them had any idea how that had happened) had been double what he usually earnt in two months.

The cost of France's renewed friendship was far higher after he had foot the bill for all three of them.

"What do you think?" Spain asked proudly, quite impressed himself with his choice of establishment. "I didn't spare any expense! I want you to have absolutely everything you want and need this weekend. You deserve the perfect break."

"Shut up and get in this motherfucking bath!" Romano called from the en-suite bathroom, already filling the marble bath tub with bubbles and hot water. His clothes were left where they fell when he threw them, his body submerged seconds later. It wasn't long before Spain had joined him - after opening the _complimentary _Moet and putting the strawberries dipped in chocolate within arms reach - sinking into the water with a long, shivering sigh.

"This is nice," he said softly, leaning forward to clink Romano's glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Romano responded, sinking lower, humming. Legs tangled with Spain's, he slung one over the side of the bath, utterly graceless and yet so completely regal. Spain tickled his side with his toes, grinning. "Hey bastard, I wanted to ask you something."

"Mmm?" Spain mumbled, hair damp and eyes closed.

"I was just wondering if, uh," Romano began, Spain opening his eyes at the pause. Smile placid and calm and warm, he jabbed him with his big toe, prompting him to continue. Romano downed his champagne in one, devoured three strawberries and said, "Have you loved anyone before me?"

It shouldn't have made his blood freeze to be asked such an innocent question. His smile now sheepish, he said quietly, "Why do you want to know that?"

"No reason," Romano answered quickly. "But there must have been someone. Everyone's loved someone before when you get to our age, don't you think?"

Spain wondered if that stood for Romano too. "Yeah, I've loved someone before," he answered honestly, shrugging. There was no reason to lie about that fact, after all. "But they don't matter, because I have you and you're all I need now."

For a moment Romano seemed satisfied with this answer, tapping his lips with a strawberry and then sinking his teeth into the flesh. Another two followed. "What were they like?" he said minutes after, Spain looking over again with a hopeless, helpless expression. "Older, younger? Male, female?"

"Do we have to talk about this?"

Romano cocked his head, actually managing to look hurt by the unfamiliar dismissal. "You don't want to tell me?"

Spain sighed, heaving up and shuffling forward, sliding fingers up Romano's thighs. "It's not that," he said, starting to rearrange himself. He dipped his head with a grin, wetting his lips. "But I don't think this weekend is the right time to discuss it; not when I could be sucking your dick right now."

Romano pushed his head back, fingers brushing his cheek. "You can suck my dick any time, but answer me first. I wanna know." His voice was gentler than normal, gentler than Spain had ever known it, almost like he knew something already. Sitting up, he twisted to lie against Romano's chest, pulling his arms around his middle. Comforted when long fingers tickled up and down his belly, he sighed heavily, beginning with a shrug.

"He was a little older than me. I was young and stupid and I fell in love and he broke my heart. It hurt. I got over it. And now I have you and that's all there is to it."

"How did he break your heart?"

Spain closed his eyes, turning to nuzzle Romano's neck, delighting in the natural, sweet scent of him like the smell of his pillow in the morning without the warmth of his body, soft and tangled in his. "I told him how I felt and he didn't feel the same way so he turned tail and ran, I guess."

"What a bastard..."

Spain smiled softly, pressing Romano's hands flat to his chest. "Ah, you always look out for me, Roma. He wasn't such a bad guy, though. He was always kind to me. I suppose he just...lost interest in me. I'm sure I wasn't the first person he did it to."

Romano scoffed. "Sounds just like my granddad. He's good at doing that kind of thing."

Laughing weakly, Spain shifted again to press his lips to Romano's, moaning quietly. "I do love you. You know that, don't you?" he whispered, nudging his nose. Romano was smiling; it was like a tickle of electricity, warm and tingly all the way down to Spain's toes. Forever it would be one of Spain's favourite things, to see Romano smile, to really smile with heart and love and adoration on his lips and in his eyes, solid and infallible.

It was a relief to get so much off his chest, to be a little bit honest. It reminded him that he really hadn't been the one at fault all those years ago. "So, what about you? You must have loved someone, too?"

Romano stiffened, his soft smile faltering. His proceeding stammering that there was 'nothing to talk about' was answer enough for Spain. "You have then? Tell me about it? Please?" He couldn't deny it was hurtful when Romano shook his head. "Why not? What do you think I'm going to do? Did you cheat on someone or something? I wouldn't judge-"

"No I didn't fucking cheat on someone!" Romano snapped, Spain sinking into the water when Romano rose to his feet, swinging out of the tub. He grabbed a towel off the heated rail, wrapping it around his waist.

"Well what then? Why won't you tell me?" Spain cried, hanging over the edge. "It doesn't make you weak. It won't change anything between us."

"I told you there's nothing to talk about!"

"Obviously there _is_!"

"Did you just bring me he to interrogate me?"

"You brought it up!"

Romano opened his mouth to retort then snapped it shut behind the bathroom door.

* * *

><p><em>Two Hundred: 4:08<em>

"Hi Spain~!"

It took Spain several moments to realise Romano was on the other end of the phone. Glancing at the obnoxiously red numbers on his digital clock, he then tried to work out why on Earth Romano was calling him at two o' clock in the morning sounding so uncharacteristically cheerful.

"Roma...is everything um..." He yawned noisily. "Is everything 'kay?"

"Yeah!" Romano said, breaking into giggles and hushing whoever else was with him. Spain frowned, suspicious. "Yes. Oi, no, that's mine- bastard, that's mine!"

Spain rubbed his eyes. "Romano, who are you with?"

"Hmm?"

"Who are you with, carino?"

"Oh! Just Belgium and Nedders," Romano sang. Spain made a noise of relief, flopping back down and curling up on his side, phone pressed between his ear and the pillow. There was a crunch on the other end and then the sound of chewing. "Mmmm, goof caketh, nom."

"Romano, are you drunk?" Spain asked tiredly, trying not to think about the time.

"No, I'm perfectly sober," Romano giggled. "I just wanted to say hello. Don't you want to speak to your boyfriend?"

"I always want to speak to you, Roma, you know I do," Spain answered. "But it's really late and I've got work in the morning and if you're not drunk then why are you acting so strangely?"

"I think I'm like...high or something."

"You're high?"

"Yes!"

"You've been smoking weed?"

"No! Wait, yes! Weed? Is that what it is? Yes, weed."

Spain sighed heavily, lips twitching. "This is weird," he said, a little upset Romano was experiencing this for the first time without him. "How are you getting home tonight?"

"I'm staying here," Romano said simply, chewing again. "Bel made some amazing cakes, y'know. You should definitely try them. They're like...like...like rainbows and sunshine and all that flowery kinda shit that you like."

Spain laughed. "Thanks. Save one for me."

"I might. I'm going now, we're going to play zombie twister."

"Zombie twi...?" Spain rolled his eyes, yawning again. "Okay, baby. Have fun and I'll talk to you in the..." He looked at the clock. "I'll talk to you later."

"Okay! Bye!"

Chuckling softly, Spain dropped the phone by his pillow and swiftly went back to sleep.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Wow, 232 ended up so much longer than I intended! Anyway, I'm really sorry for the incredibly long wait for an update. If old readers are still there, I hope you enjoy (and thanks for staying!) New readers, hello! :)

**Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days: Part 6**

* * *

><p><em>Three hundred: 15:44<em>

Hoarding insignificant trinkets had become a very cruel irony. Spain was in the habit of keeping mementos; love letters, tokens of affection and anything that gave him that burst of sunshine in his chest was kept closely guarded and safe for his eyes only.

In Spain's favourite photo of Romano, he was smiling and showing off a cheque for an enormous sum of money, something to do with investors and business and a load of stuff Spain didn't really understand but was happy about anyway because it had made Romano happy and when Romano was happy, well...

He flicked the page to the next photo, thumbnail grazing the line of Romano's jaw. He was fast asleep, a book on his chest. Spain had laughed because he was snoring and murmuring a lot of cute things that had made him even more irresistible than he already was. The next moment he was kissing him awake and demanding attention and Romano was wide awake and telling him to get the fuck off him before he bit his dick off. After that was a photo of them Spain adored, an accidental shot of the two of them taken from an angle on the floor, nothing false, just their tangled bodies.

There were the tears again, great, breath-heaving tears. Spain couldn't remember the last day he hadn't sobbed like this, bent double like he was desperately holding his heart inside in his chest. He'd just about managed to do laundry that morning, but after hanging it on the line he forgot all about it. It had rained torrentially since half past twelve. Yet to notice, Spain had rescued his trinket box from its precarious position on top of the wardrobe and had sunk to the floor with it nestled on his lap, lifting the lid with great care and lining up every item in front of him to examine one at a time.

It was painful, but therapeutic. One of Romano's empty bottles of aftershave was just about holding its scent. He held it under his nose for a few minutes, closing his eyes and imagining sleeping beside him again. It was a small comfort, but it had been enough until Spain had moved on to the hand-carved, wooden photo album he'd made as a gift to Romano to honour the day they moved in together.

_17:52_

France found him curled up on the floor in his boxers, hoisted him up and frog-marched him to the shower. Washing and drying him, he put him back to bed and told him to get some sleep, lying down beside him and lulling him with soothing words and fingers in his hair.

"I forgot about the washing," Spain said when he awoke, one of France's arms around him, the other holding a book aloft to read. He lowered it to the bedside table, smooshing a kiss to Spain's forehead.

"Not to worry," he said, lying back down, arms around his middle. "I put it back in the wash when I came in."

Spain nodded, casting his eyes over the room. His trinket box was nowhere in sight. He didn't ask where it was.

* * *

><p>Two Hundred and Thirty-Two: 20:32<p>

France was flirting with Belgium. Spain was aware enough to know Romano was bothered by it. After he'd torn three napkins into tiny little pieces, he moved on to irately hammering his knife against the table, failing to inconspicuously spy on them around the decorative statuette in the centre. "Baby, why don't you have some wine, eh?" Spain said, refilling his glass and practically lifting it to his lips, leaning as far forward as he could to block Romano's view. "It's one of your favourites, isn't it? Mains will be here soon, so you-"

"Why did you invite him?" Romano growled, downing half his glass and slamming it down. He reached for the bottle and filled it again, Spain watching the movement with a small, somewhat irritated frown. When Romano put it down, he moved it aside.

"Well, why not? France is my best friend," Spain answered, put out. "You said you wanted a sophisticated dinner date for a change and you told me I could bring someone, and next to you, France is the most sophisticated person I know."

"He's a philandering flirt who can't keep his dick in his trousers." Spain grit his teeth, valiantly ignoring the bait dangling in front of him. "You should have brought the other idiot with you, make it a proper night out. Hell, invite them to my family's house this weekend, even better! Bring all your friends!"

"Well you brought Netherlands here and there's nothing sophisticated about that pot smoking oaf!" Spain snapped. Immediately he felt guilty, sinking when Romano gave him a positively disdainful look, crossing his arms petulantly. Lowering his tone, Spain, touched his knee lightly, trying to be reassuring even if he didn't quite understand what reason Romano had to be so concerned about who Belgium potentially went home with. "I don't see what the problem is. France is really nice and he's just being friendly. I know how he works. If he was interested in Belgium, it would be pretty obvious by now."

Romano peered around him to see for himself. France was peppering kisses across her knuckles and brushing blonde curls behind her ear. When Romano looked back to him, Spain had the decency to look a little sheepish. "He won't do anything bad!" he insisted, waving his hands. "He's a good guy, honestly!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure," Romano scoffed. "And by the way, Bel brought Netherlands, not me. At least Netherlands won't spend the evening trying to get someone into bed."

"Even if that's what he's doing, what does it matter? Belgium can take care of herself, she's a grown woman," Spain reasoned, shrugging helplessly. He poured himself a very large glass of wine. As it happened, Netherlands was nowhere in sight and hadn't been seen since after the starter dishes had been taken away; Spain suspected his university habit had grown into a greater addiction over the years.

"What do you know about Belgium, she's my friend," Romano accused, eyeing him.

"Oh yeah, isn't she just."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me!"

"I don't want to."

"You're such a child!"

"I'm the child?"

"You're the child."

"Gentleman." France was standing between them with a benign smile on his lips, a hand on each of their shoulders.. "If you would kindly save your arguments for a less upstanding establishment; your main meals have arrived. You are also getting stares from the other patrons."

Both of them looked suitably embarrassed, jerking their respective seats further under the table and composing themselves. They cast accusing glares at one another when they realised all three bottles of wine on the table were empty and then proceeded to concentrate exceptionally hard on their meals. Ordinarily Romano would be picking bits off Spain's plate to try for himself; ordinarily Spain would smile serenely and watch the way his lips moved and his throat bobbed and that soft, half smile of enjoyment that trickled into his expression whenever he ate his favourite things. Then he would dab his lips and sigh and stretch and moan and tell Spain to open another bottle of Rustenberg and massage his toes while he dozed on the sofa.

Spain made an irritated noise. No wonder Romano got away with never apologising for being an ass when, if left to his own thoughts, all he thought about was how wonderful the man was. Not today, he decided, pointedly ignoring Romano with every ounce of his ability.

Unfortunately, Romano was the king of silent treatment, which only got Spain's back up even more. He wasn't the one flirting with a pretty blonde all the time. He wasn't the one buying pretty blondes pretty diamond earrings. He wasn't the one constantly casting adoring looks her way or holding her hand or leaning in to whisper sweet nothings-

Netherlands sat down next to him again. The distinctive odour of weed wafted over. "What's with the weird tension?" he asked, stuffing a piece of steak into his mouth. He grinned a little, waving his fork between Romano and Spain. "You two had another row? Why don't you just break up already? Romano, you know you're dating a coke-head scumbag, dont you?"

_21:45_

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Romano was complaining, swinging off the handle above the door in the taxi as it rounded a corner. "You've got some serious fucking issues, do you realise that? My God, who does that? Do you know how much you just embarrassed me?"

Spain resisted a derisive snort. "Is that all you care about?" he asked softly, thumb brushing his grazed knuckle. "And didn't you punch him yourself not so long ago?"

"I know he can be an asshole, but we were in the middle of a restaurant and it was completely uncalled for!" he continued, hand waving wildly. "I can never fucking go back there again! I take customers and clients there! They know me!"

Spain felt at least a tiny bit guilty about the whole affair, sighing heavily. Snatching Romano's hand out of the air, he brought it to his lips to pepper kisses over his palm. "I'm sorry, Roma. Can we just forget tonight happened and move on? I'll make you a nice dinner and-"

Romano snatched his hand back. "I'm not hungry."

Full of wine confidence, Spain growled, "how do you think I fucking feel? You spent the whole evening staring at Belgium and talking about Belgium and complaining about France talking to Belgium."

It was too late to think about it before saying it. Romano looked as though a vein was about to burst in his forehead. "Are you seriously bringing that up again?"

"Yeah, I'm 'seriously bringing that up again'."

Romano laughed. It hurt.

"What the hell do you want from me, Spain? Declarations of my undying love?"

"Yeah, maybe that'd be nice once in a while. Or just once!"

The taxi pulled to a halt at the bottom of the drive. Romano gave the driver a twenty and stepped out, muttering, "sorry, I'm in love with Belgium."

Spain followed him out, grabbing his arm halfway up the path. "That's not funny."

Wrenching his arm free, Romano growled, "who's laughing?" and shoved his key into the front door, near slamming it in Spain's face. He slipped inside just in time, the noise making the floor tremble. "You should really stop trying to turn this on me and just fucking apologise for what you did back there," Romano continued, hooking his jacket on the bannister. Toeing his shoes off, he left them where they were, hanging his keys on the wall hook.

"I should apologise? Doesn't it even bother you what he called me?"

"Well it's half true, isn't it? So why-"

Romano was cut short when Spain shoved him, feet missing their footing, sending him sprawling to his arse with a thud the neighbours would later complain about. "Fucking bastard!" he yelled, picking up a shoe neatly placed on the rack beside the stairs, hurling it with strength and absolutely no precision. Spain ducked to avoid it regardless, eyes flickering when it crashed into the table beside the front door, sending the vase minding its own business tumbling and shattering.

"Romano, calm the fuck down!" Spain said, kicking aside shards of pottery so neither of them got injured, bending forward to offer his hand. The shoe to make a pair was thrown at his chest (albeit with less aggression), bouncing off and hitting Romano square in the face.

Spain's irritation cracked. Romano's didn't. Catching sight of his trickling grin, Romano unleashed a storm of shoes, Spain battling his way through to snatch both of his arms, hoisting him to his feet and thrusting him against the hallway wall, holding him there. "Calm, down," he demanded, voice acid hot.

"Fuck you," Romano spat, panting. "Get the fuck out of my house and don't come back."

Spain's eyes swept over him; tousled hair; dark eyes; swollen lips; red cheeks; untucked shirt. He looked halfway to being a state and suddenly Spain wanted him to be all the way there, shoving a thigh between his legs and diving forward to claim him. Romano made a noise of surprise that filtered to a growl, teeth sinking into his lip.

Spain recoiled with a cry. Romano dived up the stairs, fuming. Taking a quick look around the hallway and deciding chasing after Romano instead of cleaning up after their fight would be much more enjoyable, he hurried up the stairs after him, catching hold of his middle and tossing him over his shoulder.

"Ack- bastard, put me the fuck do-" Spain wasted little time dumping Romano on the enormous bed, clambering over him, miraculously avoiding knees to the groin and fists to the stomach and pinning both arms beside his head.

"You look so hot right now, Roma," he said breathlessly, tongue digging into the corner of his lips. "You have no idea how much I wanna fuck you."

"No fucking chance!" Spain laughed, bending to nip his throat, sprinkling kisses up to his lips. He jerked away when Romano gnashed, wanting blood. "Get the hell off me."

Spain acquiesced for the amusement, waiting until Romano was on his feet (and taking a brief moment to grab strawberry scented lube from the bedside table) before attacking again, blood hot. The first instance Romano wrestled free, the second found him face first on the carpet, Spain sitting comfortably on his thighs, self-satisfied. "I know you're excited, too, y'know," he simpered in his ear, licking the shell.

"Like...like hell I am."

"Why dontcha just behave and enjoy yourself," Spain said, wiggling both hands under him to fiddle with his belt. It wasn't easy, but it worked despite Romano's fingernails digging into his hands in protest - not with enough to tell Spain he really wasn't keen. Spain had his trousers halfway down his thighs before Romano could do anything about it, rolling onto his front, scrabbling for a foothold.

Spain grabbed a handful of each arse cheek, squeezing eagerly. When he squeezed the growing bulge between Romano's legs, Romano's foot connected with his chest, shoving him backwards. It only made his lover laugh, hands tugging Romano back to him by the ankles, wrapping his legs around his waist. "Do you realise how fucking sexy you're being right now?" he whispered, dragging teeth over his shoulder. "God, I wanna do terrible things to you."

Just beginning to give in to the teasing, Romano asked, "what things are they...?"

* * *

><p><em>Two Hundred and Sixty: 11:25<em>

"You're not putting that there, Spain," Romano said the moment Spain placed a garish ornament on the bay windowsill of his living room. It was quickly snatched away and shoved back into the box it had come from, other bits and bobs tumbling on top of it. Spain's cheeks ballooned.

"Don't I get to have any of my stuff out?" he complained, picking up a tatty, plush rabbit he'd had on his bed for as long as he could remember. It was missing one eye and had been sun-washed grey. He held it up like a puppet, moving the head in time with his own. "Meanie, meanie woma, won't you let me sweep in your bed~?"

"Oh my God, don't do that voice, yuck," Romano grumbled, rearranging the items on his windowsill, just for good measure. He looked around the room, irritated by box upon box of stuff that wasn't his and had no place to be and no place to go. "Disgusting, tatty, disease-riddled things are not allowed in my bed."

Spain gasped. "Roma! Mister Twinkle-Tummy is not 'disease-riddled' or 'tatty' or 'disgusting'! He had a wash just last week! I like watching him going around the tumble dryer. Plus, he's super warm when he comes out and extra cuddleable, which is great when I don't have you around for cuddles."

"Who said I was talking about him? And I don't do cuddling, we've been over this already."

Spain took a moment to process that and then wailed, protectively squeezing the rabbit to his chest, "Mean! You're so mean!"

Romano laughed softly, nudging him aside to get to the bedside cabinet. One at a time he opened and cleared the drawers of his own things, tossing them over the bed where they were likely to remain until they were deposited to the floor when bedtime came around. Spain, taking the hint with a pleased grin and depositing his childhood toy in a box, haphazardly shared bedside knickknacks between each drawer, sliding the bottom one shut with a satisfied hum.

Ten more boxes remained, lined up from the bedroom door to the stairs where the last one had been dumped because neither of them had the energy remaining to at least find the right room for it.

Cushions bounced to the floor when both of them unceremoniously flopped to the bed. Romano let out an enormous, universe altering sigh, rolling onto his side, head propped on the crook of his elbow. "I suppose it'll be nice having someone around more often again," he said, picking fluff off Spain's t-shirt. "Even if it's just you."

Spain snorted. "I could still move out again. The lease on my place isn't up for a month."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't move out."

"You're right." Spain turned and smiled, leaning in to peck his lips. "I wouldn't. Though for my company, I- wait, 'again'?"

Romano was already sitting up, the slip unnoticed. He stretched and cracked his back, satisfied noise easing from deep in his chest. "Come on, you've got more boxes to move yet. This place looks like a shithole and I want it tidy before lunchtime and since it's your stuff and my house, it's your responsibility. Then you're making me food."

Spain groaned, rolling to his feet and muttering, "fine," like he hadn't made lunch every day for as long as they'd been together. Food was Romano's priority; his questions could wait until later.

_23:25_

Mister Twinkle-Tummy mysteriously migrated back to the bed before the evening drew in. Promptly he was dumped on the floor amongst belongings and pillows when Spain and Romano were fed, watered, wined and ready to share their first night together as official housemates, exhausted from a day of moving.

"Why...why do you have so many pillows and cushions, anyway?" Spain said breathlessly, gripping Romano's hips, his own fluid and firm in pursuit of contact. Dragging him down by the back of the neck, he grazed sharp teeth over the sensitive jut of his collar, tongue tickling the hollow, lips seeking a fluttering pulse above and trickling back down. "Fuck, you taste really good."

"I like to be comfortable," Romano answered, plucking the remaining cushion from the bed and tossing it amongst the rest. Spain laughed as he lifted to find his lips, suckling hungrily. "What's funny, bastard?"

"You always chuck them on the floor before bed, you never lie on them."

"What do I need pillows for when I have you, fatty?"

Spain bellowed with laughter, tickling his sides mercilessly in retaliation. "Look who's talking!" he cried, Romano squirming on top of him, dimpled cheeks quivering. Spain grabbed a handful of the delicious flesh on each hip, squeezing it delightedly. "Look at all of this, eh?"

Romano half laughed, half growled, pinching Spain all over in an attempt to find just one little bit of fat to tease. "God dammit, you need to stop playing so much football!" he grumbled, giving up and leaning over him, hand either side of his head.

"Wasn't it only last week you were telling me how sexy you find my back because it's all muscly and stuff. And my arms. And my legs."

"I was drunk. Anything I say when drunk doesn't count. It's a rule."

Spain laughed again, dragging him flush to his chest. It hadn't seemed that way when Romano was all over him, littering filthy kisses from head to toe and moaning in delight each time he found a spot that was particularly pleasing to him. Not that Spain had been complaining. "God, I love you," he admitted wearily, squeezing him.

"I know, you told me already," Romano said, voice muffled by Spain's unGodly chiseled chest. Fingers threaded through Romano's hair, drawing a little shiver from him that made him smile.

"And I'll tell you every day for the rest of my life," he said, squeezing him a bit harder. "Can I ask you something, though?"

Romano made a noise of affirmation, the noise telling Spain he was about ready to drift to sleep. He gave him a little shake to grab his attention, Romano blinking up at him, only half annoyed. "What, fucking hell...?"

"This morning, when you were saying how you were glad you'd have someone around more often," Spain began, heart beginning to thud. "You said 'again'. I know that this is stuff you don't really like to discuss, but I really need to-"

He paused when Romano sat up slowly, suddenly afraid he'd screwed things up again by pushing too hard. But Romano only slid to his side, tiredly sinking against the headboard. "I know I've gotta tell you this eventually. I know I should have told you this already, too, but...you're not allowed to be angry, okay?"

Spain nodded, dread filling his chest.

* * *

><p><em>Two-Hundred and Sixty-Five: 10:57<em>

They were in the supermarket doing the weekly grocery shop when Romano had said it. No airs or graces, no romance, no candles; just Spain and his lover, both of them reaching for the paella rice at the same moment, fingers finding each other instead and clinging and staring at one another like worlds had collided, like the universe had paused to appreciate them both.

Spain knew Romano would yell at him for making their relationship sound like Mills and Boon.

"I love you," Romano said, the words so effortless and simple Spain wondered if he'd misheard; and as if realising the dangerous 'l-word' had just flung itself out of his mouth without asking him first, Romano flushed right the way down his neck, pulling free of Spain's touch. He coughed into his fist and plucked the rice from the shelf, tossing it into the trolley and hurrying off with it like a mad motorist, wheels squealing around the corner of the aisle.

Spain's heart thudded for fifteen minutes after. Part of him was trying to work out what sounded like 'I love you', but I 'dove' you made no sense at all and that was as far as he got in the alphabet before hurrying after Romano, excited.

Having followed him in somewhat of a daze around the supermarket (paying no attention to the food being piled and piled and piled...) and his own cheeks a vibrant and sunny red, he finally caught Romano's hand, pulling it to his lips to kiss his fingers and return the sentiment with every inch of sincerity. A proper kiss had followed, slow and sweet and unintentionally and exceptionally public.

Curtly shoved to an appropriate, respectable distance, Romano grumbled, "What was that for?" Spain yelped when he pinched his arm for no reason other than he was standing there. "And don't just grab me in public! There are children around! And this is a supermarket! It's unhygienic to do that kind of thing."

"You said you love me!" Spain announced, ignoring his concerns and nearby customers chuckling at his braziness. He was swaying with glee. "You said you love~ me~! You, love, me."

"I did not say that," Romano answered, head tipped to conceal his red cheeks. Grabbing the trolley handle, he aggressively wheeled it away, narrowly avoiding a little, old lady. Spain hurried after him, pausing to apologise to the poor dear, and then curling an arm around Romano's middle. "Even if I did say something that soppy, I thought it was obvious already anyway. I didn't realise I had to fucking say it! Though you're pretty damn dense, so I suppose that makes a lot of sense."

Spain didn't care how much Romano insulted his intelligence for the rest of the day. It wasn't as though he really meant it anyway. "And besides, I didn't say it, so there's really nothing at all to talk about," he continued, half-heartedly wiggling out of his grip. "Stop looking so damn happy, will you?"

Spain nodded, putting his face absolutely straight for precisely three seconds before his smile erupted again. "I'm sorry, Romano, I can't help it!" he laughed when Romano elbowed him in the ribs. He pulled him to a halt in front of the frozen vegetables, taking his hands. Leaning in, he nuzzled his nose affectionately. "You've made me so happy, do you know that? And just for the record, I love you, too."

When he dipped to catch his lips, an enormous bag of frozen peas was shoved in his face.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


End file.
